


Desolation Dreamed Of

by PointlessNostalgic



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PointlessNostalgic/pseuds/PointlessNostalgic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest love story of all time, told as never before. A childhood injury leaves Christine blind with cataracts, and when her father dies, she moves to Paris to become a seamstress. Here, in the Opera Garnier, she meets a mysterious angel...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Angels and Arias

_Fingers on stone. Four fingertips raking slowly across porous cinder. Sharp right turn in conjunction with the wall and more stone. First wooden door frame: props. Paneled door, and more stone. Small dent in stone, from a fight apparently. Second door frame: The House. Correction, the workshop. Stop, drag fingers down to metal door knob. Grasp, turn, and open. Mumblings from Isabelle and Cecile, two elderly spinsters who will likely die in this room, in this place we call home._

The machines rumbled as Christine entered the workshop, eyes dead ahead and unmoving. Isabelle and Cecile greeted her with a warm, "Good morning, child," and her eyes darted momentarily in their direction as she offered a small smile in return. It was a darkened room, with an unmasked gaslight hanging carefully above each work station. They offered only faint glows, and to Christine's eyes, little more than blurred pinpricks of light. Christine navigated deftly through the maze of wooden tables to her own in a far corner. Four shelves, nine intricately carved bowls, ten sets of thread spools, one wooden table, six silver needles in one plush pin cushion, and one wooden bench. Across the wooden table, a bolt of maroon fabric lay with resolute perfection. These and nothing else inhabited her small workplace.

"First snow this morning," Cecile offered brightly, perhaps a bit too cheerfully for the hour.

"I thought so—I could feel the chill," Christine remarked softly, not unused to this casual commentary from her two compatriots.

_Three small steps from the turn. Index finger drags across the width of the bench. Knees bend slightly. Sit. Confidently. Confidently sit. Bring left hand carefully to the small pin cushion, and draw it closer. Retrieve the threaded needle—black. It's black. I threaded it yesterday._

The trio worked in silence for a few moments longer before Isabelle chuckled to herself out of the silence.

"Madame Giudicelli had a visit yesterday. I only just remembered."

"Oh did she? From our little fantôme?"

"Who else?"

The two old women laughed at the prospect, and Christine's head turned to them briefly. Le fantôme de l'opéra. It was all they talked about, and who could blame them? A little fiction was certainly needed to spice up the dull lives of the seamstresses. Still, Christine remained dutifully silent as she listened to their chatter, her mind carefully stowing away all the information she heard for her own knowledge.

"What did he do this time?" Cecile asked in an amused tone, and Christine could nearly hear the thinly veiled grin that must be gracing her face.

"Stole her wig," the gray-haired seamstress replied matter-of-factly. "The white one with the fake roses in the curls."

"What would he want that for?" Christine asked from her corner, piping up for the first time.

"Oh don't you know my dear? The Opera Ghost has no hair," Cecile responded knowingly, though a tell-tale hint of mischief lacing her voice. Of course, she must be teasing, but Christine was not averse to a little playfulness.

_Third shelf. Tin cup of glass beads. Retrieve, place on table. Steady now. Sift through beads. Take just one. Thread. And begin._

_The Opera Ghost. I'm interested now._

"No hair? Surely you jest," Christine mused as she reached for her second bead. She had heard this before, but the two of them always enjoyed their gossip and she was glad to oblige.

"Never!" Cecile exclaimed, and Christine could hear Cecile set down her fabric as the voice turned to her in defense. Isabelle was happy to aid in this tale, and began speaking immediately.

"It's true, dear. He has no nose either." Isabelle noted matter-of-factly with a firm nod.

"And yellow eyes!"

"And his skin!"

"Oh, his skin!"

_They've gone to the skin already. No bantering to precede. Right into his features. Door opening. Cough. Olivie enters. She has a cold. She will not indulge in their gossip. She is shy. Fourth bead._

"What does he wear?" Christine asked, pushing them along with a small smile, fully aware of how much they enjoyed this.

"A fedora—black, and unmistakable!" she gushed without a second thought, her words laced with a sense of theatrical macabre to enhance the story.

"And his cape. Goodness child, it's quite a sight!" They were nearly overlapping the ends of their sentences and they hurriedly spat out the bits of knowledge they had acquired over the years.

"Have you seen him?" Christine questioned easily, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

"Only last week! I was scared half to death." Isabelle exclaimed in horror before Christine heard the unmistakable sound of the machine as the woman turned back to her work with difficulty. 

"What a lie Isabelle! You've never seen him," Cecile snapped in return.

"Yes I have! In the catwalks!"

"Oh, of course. The catwalks."

"Don't use that tone with me!"

_Arguing. Of course. They will forgive each other before lunch. Seventh bead._

"Ladies! I can hear you across the hall!"

_Enter_ _Geneviève_ _, supposed Queen of the House._

"And I'm sure you'll say you've seen his mask as well!" Cecile mocked, though they all knew the words weren't malicious.

"Oh but I have!"

"Not the opera ghost again. What would  _he_  think of your shameful gossip!" Geneviève snapped as she marched to her workplace, sitting down with a muffled thump.

_Superstitious, as per usual._

"Just like Giry," Cecile whispered to her counterpart with a giggle, all anger forgotten. Isabelle responded with a muffled laugh, before stopped by Geneviève's harsh voice.

"I heard that."

_What a lie._

* * *

The first snow had chilled the air inside the opera house, and Christine walked. Others rushed past her frantically at the prospect of another visit from the famed Carlotta Giudicelli, but she kept her pace measured, her hand outstretched to the wall, her mind's eye carefully reviewing the stitching she had completed that day. She had laid the dress crisply across the wooden table as she had found it that morning, the needle threaded black, no bead left out of place. She knew her destination, and it was near. It was an old dressing room, long abandoned due to some wild threat made by the supposed opera ghost. Perhaps she would have believed in such things back in Sweden, but not now. Angels, she could believe in, for that was God's doing, but phantoms were a thing of children's literature.

Once her fingers came in contact with the wall at the end of the hallway, she turned to her left and felt for the cold door knob she knew to be there. Turning the knob gently, she entered the room and closed it again with a click. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring into the haze of the dark room in silence. He was there—she could feel him. She was in the presence of her Angel of Music, the divine creature sent by her father, and she could sense it.

"Christine." The omnipotent voice spoke just behind her left ear, but she didn't turn. He wouldn't be there. He couldn't be seen, you see, for he was _everywhere_.

"Angel," was her soft reply, and that was all that was needed to commence their lesson.

The sound of the violin echoed gracefully through the room—her father's violin, she was sure—and without any question, she began to warm her voice. An hour, maybe two, passed easily without much notice from either party. Notes soared and vibrato rang out, echoing through the room and surrounding her being in a blanket of sound. And then, just as her voice began to tire, her Angel finally ceased.

"That's enough for today, my dear," he said gently, and she couldn't keep a smile from forming on her lips.

A pause before she spoke again.

"Angel?"

"Yes?" he responded after a moment of silence.

"Have you ever seen the ghost that haunts the opera house?"

Silence that thickened the air.

"Yes."

"Is he as they say?" she asked hesitantly.

"What do they say?" His voice was emotionless, no curiosity or anger present in those words.

"Isabelle and Cecile tell me that he has yellow eyes and no nose. That he wears a fedora and a cape. And a mask, a white porcelain mask, across half of his face."

"Do they?" If she wasn't mistaken, there seemed to be the barest hint of amusement in his voice, but she was surely mistaken in that notion.

"They say he is just like a corpse."

The icy silence that enveloped the scene felt longer than any other, until Christine began to think her teacher had left altogether.

"Angel?" she called tentatively.

"It is not my place to reveal other's secrets, my dear."

And that was the end. He had left without a word, and she could feel it in the air. It softened and became easier to breathe suddenly, and there was nothing more to do. She would come again tomorrow and she would not mention the opera ghost and neither would he, and things would continue on as they always had. And that was the end.


	2. Of Cunning and Coloraturas

Christine's lessons continued seamlessly with no further mention of the ghost from her and no change in demeanor from her angel. The days continued on as they had for the past several months—wake up with the sun, dress and eat with painstaking precision, feel her way down to The House, and finally to her lesson. It was a regimented schedule that she had ingrained in her head so meticulously that she could just  _feel_  when it was time to go to the House and _sense_  when her day's work was over.

And so at seven twenty, she began to make her way through the already buzzing opera house. There was always somebody awake, always somebody rushing past her with some crazed purpose. She always thought that people took things far too quickly. After all, what beauty can you find in the things around you if you only see blurs in your peripheral vision? Who knows what you could miss in your frenzy!

At seven thirty, her hands found the knob on the door of The House and she entered silently, her ears greeted with the chattering of her aged colleagues. As soon as she closed the door behind her however, their gossip stopped and she was met with a wall of silence. Furrowing her brow, she moved to her workplace and found her supplies to continue the beading on Madame Giudicelli's dress. Beading her needle, she began with unhurried exactitude.

"What is the gossip today, Cecile?" she asked from her corner, retrieving a second bead from the third bowl on the right. She felt the hesitance preceding Cecile's answer.

"Madame Giudicelli is coming in to see your dress today," she announced slowly, forcing a casual tone into her voice.

Without missing a stitch, Christine's face contorted in swift confusion.

"Is she? I thought she wasn't coming in until next week. The opening night isn't until the Friday after next, and they never ask for costumes this early."

"You know our Prima Donna, dear," Isabelle continued for Cecile,trying to sound gentle. "She lives to shake up the management and create commotion."

"But I'm not done with this section yet… If she tugs on it, the beads will all fall off," Christine said, glaring down at her fabric, voice tinged with impatience.

Christine began to bead frantically, trying to pick up her speed without losing her accuracy. She always began her garments so far in advance that rushing wasn't necessary, and mistakes rarely occurred. She could feel her dominant hand begin to shake slightly as she struggled to navigate the bead onto the needle and down the thread to the fabric with forced haste.

_Steady now._

Just as she was bringing the shaky needle through the thick fabric, she pricked her thumb. She dropped the fabric as if it were on fire, immediately bringing her thumb to her mouth. Carlotta would be simply ecstatic if she found blood on her new costume, an excuse to watch a poor seamstress get fired. Grabbing a scrap underneath her table, she wrapped her thumb and tied the ends quickly before continuing in haste. She would finish this dress. She would finish it and hold it up with a smile when Madame Giudicelli came in, expecting failure.

* * *

It couldn't have been later than four o'clock in the afternoon when the door opened forcefully and the sound of clicking heels met Christine's ears. Her heart nearly stopped as she felt the fabric to see how close she was to the end. Less than twenty beads, she was sure. The clicking of Carlotta's heels continued perilously closer, until they stopped, standing directly in front of Christine's table.

"I'll be needing that now."

The thick Italian accent pierced the air, and Christine kept her head firmly down.

"I'm nearly done, Madame. I only have—…"

"No, I need it now. We are having run-through in thirty minutes and I need the dress."

"Madame, if you could just allow me ten more minutes, I—…"

"I don't have ten minutes. Perhaps you don't understand how long it takes to put on a garment like this. There are corsets and layers and layers of fabric, but you wouldn't know that, seeing how you're dressed. I would be surprised if you owned a scrap of clothing beyond the rags you're wearing now, after all." It was underhanded—really not outright, but with guile.

"Madame, I fear if you step on the end during the rehearsal, all the beads would come off right there on stage," Christine said evenly, keeping her voice steady and polite.

"I would step on it? Excuse me? This is your only job, little miss, and it is your own fault it is not done. I see you walking around, taking your time, sauntering about. Your  _only_  job is to bead my costumes, and if you can't get it done on time, I will just have to talk to the management." Carlotta paused, and Christine could hear the frown in her voice. "Well? Are you even going to look at me, you little tramp, or are you just stupid?"

She was pleased with herself, Christine could tell. Lifting her head slightly, she brought her eyes to where she knew Madame Giudicelli was residing. Blue irises and white pupils stared up at the Italian prima donna, emotionless. "Forgive me, Madame, perhaps you've forgotten that I'm blind." To any normal human being, such words would inspire guilt. But Carlotta certainly was no normal human being.

"Bah! It is not my job to remember all of you little rats! My job is to wear my clothes and sing my arias and make more money than you could  _dream_  of." Carlotta grabbed for the costume, clearly determined to wear it for her run-through, but Christine held on tight, keeping her blind eyes staring up in Carlotta's direction.

A chair scraped against the floor and someone stood across the room.

"I will bring the garment to you when Christine has finished. Now, let me show you out." It was Geneviève and she sounded livid and unyielding.

Madame Carlotta didn't need showing out, and with a huff, she stomped to the door and exited with a slam.

"Thank you Mademoiselle Geneviève," Christine murmured as she grabbed for another bead and threaded it.

* * *

She was late for her lesson. She had to finish the beading or fear the wrath of Madame Giudicelli, and now she was late. Christine nearly walked at the speed of the stage hands, and when she felt the door knob to the dressing room, she threw open the door, entered, and closed it with a quick click. Still holding onto the knob, she let out a long breath, closing her eyes for a moment, before turning around to hear her Angel, whom she knew would be cross with her.

"You're late," came his reply to her thoughts just as she opened her eyes.

"Forgive me." There was nothing but humble apology in her voice, for she knew that only the most sincere words would convince him of her regret for being late.

A pause, and Christine thought that perhaps he had left her as punishment. But then came his voice once again.

"Your thumb." It was a statement more than anything else. Touching her index finger to her thumb, she felt the scrap fabric wrapped around it still. She pulled it off quickly and stuffed the fabric in her pocket, letting out another large sigh.

"Only a little prick," she offered with a gulp, somewhat surprised at his current demeanor.

"What happened?" She blinked, confused.

Where was his yelling? His lecturing on the importance of punctuality, or his reprimanding words on the value of their time together? No, she heard none of this, and could only detect perfect calmness in his smooth voice.

"I was just rushed this morning and was careless. Madame Giudicelli came in demanding her costume today, you see." Her words were rushed, for she had no desire to dwell on her story in fear of an explosion from her angel at any moment.

"Did she?" The voice had a clear undertone of anger, veiled carefully in control.

"Yes. But please, our lesson, I'm terribly sorry I was late." She had barely finished the sentence before her angel cut her off.

"Please, I implore you."

She hesitated at his gentle voice before obliging. "She simply berated me for not having her costume finished. She told me that if I had time to stroll around the hallways and take my time doing things that I should be finished with her costume…"

"Yes?" His voice eased her on, but it did not quell her uneasiness at relaying the story.

"And then she asked me why I wasn't looking at her and asked me if I was stupid. Miss Geneviève kept her from taking the garment though, and I had to finish," she finished with a gulp. There was barely a beat before his reply came.

"I do not want to strain you. We don't want you falling ill from fatigue. Go sleep, child."

And he was gone.

* * *

The next day, Christine made her way down to the workshop and as soon as she entered the room, she was met with endless laughing and gasps for breath. After a moment of confusion, she simply made her way to her station and sat down, feeling for the new garment that she had placed there the day before.

"Right there, right there on stage. She hit the note and it simply fell apart!" A new wave of cackling met her ears and she turned to the sound.

"What's going on?" she asked as they turned towards her.

"You won't believe it, child. Oh, it's just to die for!" It was Cecile and she was grinning. Christine could hear it in her voice.

"Madame Giudicelli… She got her dress and put it on and went out for her rehearsal and all was well—" Isabelle began, but Cecile picked up the story from there.

"She was not halfway through her first song when she hit one of those high notes that could rattle the chandelier and you know that headdress she wears? The one that likely weighs more than me?" she asked with another good-natured laugh.

"Yes?"

"It simply fell apart, right there on stage. First the feather fell off and then the jewels popped off and then the metal fell apart and landed there right by her feet!"

"I daresay it dented the masonite, and won't the stagehands love her for that!"

"And that's not even the best part, dear!" Cecile continued. "She swears she heard this maniacal laughing right in her ear but no one else in the theatre heard it. She says it was deathly loud, and doesn't understand why only she could hear it. Either she's going crazy or our little fantôme is having a bit of fun!"

"It happened not twenty minutes after you left The House. Oh, dear, if only you could have seen it!"

After another round of laughter from the two women, Geneviève entered and they all busied themselves with work. Christine struggled to keep the smile from her face as she beaded with ease. Carlotta was not well-liked by the company at the Opera Garnier, and she certainly got what she deserved, but Christine could not decide whether or not to believe in this mysterious ghost of legendary proportions. After all, accidents do happen.


	3. Of Fables and Fioritura

Christine placed another bead shakily on the tip of the expectant needle. The Opera Ghost…surely not. He didn't exist. He was a topic for Cecile and Isabelle to gossip about while they lived out the rest of their meager existence bent over needles, threads, and costumes beneath a grandiose opera house. He wasn't real. It had been her fault.

"The beads popped off?" Her words acted as a knife, cutting through their conversation.

Cecile turned her head in Christine's direction, stopping mid-sentence.

"Oh yes dear!" she giggled softly, keeping an eye on Geneviéve. "Everything simply fell apart right on top of her. Screamed something awful."

"They'll blame me," she whispered back after a moment, a new fear rising in her throat at the thought of an imperfection. "It was my fault."

"What?" The elderly woman gave her a questioning glance.

"I helped to bead the headdress," she started, voice catching. "She was angry with me about her dress—she'll turn to me in an instant."

"She won't hardly remember your name, dear," Cecile soothed, placing a gnarled, clement, hand atop Christine's shaking fingers.

"She'll have me fired." The thought sent her blinded eyes roving about The House, as if searching desperately for a vision she had lost so many years before.

Fired meant no room and board. Money, payment, it was something she had never experienced for her services—a home and food was all she was ever given, all she needed. And an angel. She had been given an angel. But what good would a messenger of God be to one with no livelihood? No home? One who would surely die of starvation or disease within months? Her hand continued to shiver at the morbid thoughts, and only Cecile's concerned breath kept her mind from wandering too far into this morose prediction.

Then, as if reading her mind, a whisper echoed through my head in placation. "Hush. Calm yourself." And that was all that was needed to clear her mind of such thoughts, at least until she finished her work. And so, with a much steadier hand, she grabbed another bead and threaded it adroitly as a mask of temporary contentment glazed over her features.

* * *

As each hour passed, worry gradually drifted back into her being. In fact, she could feel her fingers shaking against the cool concrete walls as she navigated to the dressing room. She tried to hear his voice in her head, telling her to be still, but Carlotta's words from the day before kept cutting into her senses. When her hand finally met the doorknob she had been searching for, she entered quickly and found the chair at the far end of the room, sitting down with haste. Her breaths were shaky and labored, as if trying to restrain the tears that were threatening to break over the barrier of her eyelids.

_Steady now._

She had to calm down. She couldn't sing like this to save her life—the aria she had worked on for so long would sound like nothing but a jumble of poorly executed trills and messy ornaments. More than anything, she needed to hear his voice again and she needed to hear that it would all be alright—that he would protect her and keep her safe.

On cue, he spoke. "What is it today, child?" he asked, his voice cool and rich.

Christine's head rose and she stared ahead in silence for a moment. Pulling a curl behind her ear, she began. "I heard that Madame Guidicelli's headdress fell apart, and that all my little beads fell off and bounced all across the stage." She paused for a moment, closing her eye with a deep breath. "I only fear that Madame Guidicelli will blame me and get me fired. I don't know what I would do, Angel!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes suddenly in wide fear. "I have no skills to speak of and I've never been out in the real world by myself! In Sweden, I had my father, and here I always have a home and food. And I have you," she finished quietly, frowning. "If I were to lose my job, I would have nothing." Her hands gripped the sides of her chair as if bracing herself for something unknown. "I don't want to leave here," she said almost inaudibly.

"I don't want you to fret over such things, my darling." His voice came right next to her ear after just a moment, and her hands loosened their grip on the chair, visibly relaxing at the sound of his voice. "You never have to worry. I'm here to protect you."

A ghost of a smile drifted across her lips as she let silence surround her. Calmness came over her as she heard her breathing slow to a shallow and measured pace. "Angel?" she called out when she was finally satisfied with the sound of her own breath. "Will you tell me a story like you used to? Before we sing?" The question was a tentative one and she didn't full expect acquiescence. There were no words to alert her that her request had been granted. He simply began and transported her into a new world where there was no Carlotta Guidicelli.

"There was once a poor, provincial family—a father, a mother, and a daughter—who possessed only a mill and a magnificent wild apple tree that resided just behind it. They lived from day to day, struggling for food and commodities, never confident in whether they would live through every week."

A pause, as Christine took in the small prologue with delight. A true smile had even crept onto her face, perhaps from the story or perhaps from the sound of his voice saying the words.

"One morning as the father was chopping wood in front of the mill, a mysterious man approached him. He was gaunt and elderly, walking with the aid of a cane. 'Why are you chopping wood there?' he asked as his spindly legs came to a halt a few feet away from the father. The old man gave a toothy smile and inched closer. 'I'll make you rich if you'll only give me what is behind your mill there. You'll never have to worry about money ever again.' The words were tempting, and the father was eager to accept. An apple tree was nothing compared to the riches this old man offered. Quite pleased with his good fortune, the father rushed back to his wife to give her the good news. After recounting his story, she spoke in horror. 'That was no old man you spoke to. That was the Devil! He was not referring to the apple tree behind the mill, but our daughter who is playing behind it as we speak!

"The girl was beyond beautiful, and lived with the fear of God within her. When she heard of her father's encounter and the subsequent deal that was made, she washed her body and drew a circle of chalk around herself. The Devil arrived and realized that he could not reach her when she was cleansed and inside the circle. He ordered her father to keep all water from her so that she could no longer clean herself and would therefore be his. When the girl realized The Evil One's plan, she wept on her hands to keep them clean and stay free. The Devil, never to be outdone, ordered her father to cut off her hands, in hopes that she could not clean the blood from her body and would therefore be his."

Christine gasped and grasped her hands together, rubbing at her fingertips as if treasuring what this girl would soon lose.

"Her father was shocked, but after many threats, he came to his child and told her that this was the only way for him to stay safe. Being a devoted child, she presented her hands to be cut off. But, she outdid the Devil, and wept so much that she kept her stubs of arm clean of blood. The Devil abandoned her in anger, declaring that he had lost his right to steal her away."

"What an awfully sad story," Christine said with a small frown, furrowing her brow.

"That is only the half of the story, my dear," he replied.

_He is smiling. I can hear it is in his voice. Do angels smile?_

"The girl decided to leave her home in search of compassionate people who would accept her even with her…" There was the smallest, minute pause there, before he picked up almost without a hitch. "Differences. Only a few days through her journey, though, she began to get hungry and sought out an orchard. She came across a royal garden full of pear trees and looked at them in envy and hunger, for a moat surrounded the garden that she could not cross. Just as she was about to leave, though, an angel appeared before her and rewarded her for her devotion to God and parted the waters so that she could cross into the garden. She approached one of the pear trees and took a bite of one of the hanging fruit, reveling in its flavor.

"Meanwhile, in the castle just behind the gardens, the King watched out the window as a young girl crossed through his moat and took a bite of a pear with little concern for whom the orchard belonged to. After reflecting, he decided that it must be an angel, for how else would the girl cross the moat without a trace of water on her? He left his castle and trekked to the garden where he found the girl taking a final bite of the hanging pear. 'Are you a spirit?' he asked simply without any pretense. She looked over at him and shook her head slowly. 'I am only a mortal who was forsaken by all but God.' He reached up to grab another pear, holding it up for her. 'I will not forsake you.' He brought her back to his castle and allowed her to live there with him. Despite her deformity, he realized that she was still beautiful and more importantly, incredibly kind. No less than a month later, he made her his wife and they lived happily together until their deaths."

"What a beautiful story," Christine murmured, bearing an expression of pure contentment. Confusion flashed across her face, though, as she asked a question that was burning in her mind. "But why would a father do such a thing? Cut off his own daughter's hands?"

"I suppose so that he would not be taken away to hell by the Devil," he replied simply.

"But he made the deal. He should have to pay, not her."

"Some people are selfish, Christine."

"Oh." Neither said a word for several moments as she contemplated his tale briefly. "Am I the girl?" she asked, looking up once again. "And are you the angel?" She sounded excited, now—a child thrilled to have realized the hidden meaning. "I will never find a king, but what a fanciful and charming thought!"

"Let us begin our lesson, child," was his only reply, and she couldn't identify whether he was pleased by her observation, or bored her childlike demeanor. She stood up, nonetheless, and took a deep breath before beginning myriad scales.

 


	4. Of Piqués and Pasts

_Pull fabric taut. Thumb at edge. Run slowly up, counting. One. Two. Three. Continue. Seventeen rows. Only three more to go. Thread. Bead. Needle. And continue._

It was midday in Paris and the House was still. All but Christine had left for lunch; with only a handful of beads left to stitch onto the garment, she was nearly done as well. Before the needle could pierce the coarse muslin, a soft knock disturbed the tranquil air around her. Christine uttered a short word of consent and the door gave way, the sound of small feet padding on the hardwood floor echoing across the room.

"Good afternoon, Miss Christine," came a sing-song voice which she quickly identified as that of her friend.

"Good afternoon, Miss Margaret," Christine replied, a soft smile come.

She and Meg had long since joked around with formalities that no longer existed after years of friendship. In fact, Meg was one of the first people that ever spoke to Christine when she arrived at the Opera. This was likely due to the fact that her mother, Madame Giry, took on the responsibility of caring for the young Christine when she arrived from Sweden. Meg, two years her junior, would often sit with Christine on her small bed and describe in intricate detail the scenes which her mother brought to life through her choreography. Christine would sit, entranced, as Meg's words transformed into living pictures in her mind.

She would imagine La Sylphide, the only ballet she had seen before her accident. Her father played violin in the orchestra and able to watch the entire ballet from a side stage, as there was no where else that her father could send her. She watched in rapture as ballerinas performed jetés and moved gracefully en pointe across the stage.

Although the subject of their discussions changed in time, their friendship never faltered. Christine relied on Meg as the vision that she no longer possessed. Meg led her around Paris on the few occasions when Christine had to venture outside of the Opera House, and kept her informed of all the gossip that circulated through the Opera Garnier, but had missed Cecile and Isabelle. She would tell Christine exactly what every person looked like so that when she heard their voices, she could imagine their features.

She had come in for a fitting as the opening night was drawing near, expecting to find Isabelle there, measuring tape in hand. When she was nowhere to be found, Meg pulled up a chair next to Christine with a sigh.

"She'll be back soon," Christine offered with a smile.

"No hurry. We haven't talked in ages, anyway. I heard some terrible rumors about  _you_ , actually."

"Why would any waste their breath on me?" she said with macabre humor and a grim laugh.

"It's the Prima Donna's doing, of course." That explained it.

"Ah," was all she said in response.

"Exactly. The Prima Donna is saying that you misbeaded her headdress and that's why it fell apart." It wasn't accusatory, merely laughable.

"Is that right? Well, I'm not sure how my beading would make chunks of metal fall to the ground. I'm fairly sure that's not part of my job description." After her lesson and her Angel's lovely story, she had become significantly calmer about the situation.

"We all think it's ridiculous, but of course, no one crosses the great Madame Guidicelli." Her words were tinged with sarcasm, and they both let out a small chuckle. "The Opera Ghost is to blame, of course."

"Is he?" Christine mused.

"Oh, yes. I suspect a letter shall show up any minute now explaining his little stunt," Meg said, with no irony, no doubt.

"You can't honestly believe that he exists," Christine teased, shaking her head as she continued to count the rows of beads along the hem.

"Well, my mother believes in him," she said haughtily, quite proud. Meg, at only fifteen, was still at that stage in her teenage years where she staunchly agreed with every word her mother uttered.

"You're both just being superstitious." It wasn't meant to harm her, but the words stung Meg nonetheless.

"Superstitious?" she asked indignantly, bracing herself against Christine's work table as a malicious tone entered her voice. "And I suppose your 'angel' is more real than my ghost?" It was beginning to cease being a joke for Meg. "Is he really all that different? An invisible man that never shows himself, speaks softly in your ear, leaves you roses. The Opera Ghost would do the very same!'

"My angel is real." Christine's voice flared with an anger that even she was surprised to hear. "Seeing isn't believing. In case you've forgotten, I  _can't_ see anything to believe in it. That's faith."

"You know that's not what I meant," said Meg as her voice softened and she let her hand drop from the wooden surface. There was a pause and Christine could hear her friend gulp in hesitation. "I've been thinking about it, and I wouldn't be surprised if your angel  _was_  the Opera Ghost." Another pause as she assessed how far she could go. "You're just afraid to admit it."

"Don't even joke about something like that!" Christine snapped, unable to hear the concerned undertone in her voice.

"I'm not joking," she said, the anger flaring once again. "Your angel is probably the Opera Ghost in disguise and he's going to do something  _awful_  to you just like he does to Carlotta and the other ballet dancers."

"You're just ignorant. The Opera Ghost doesn't exist. My Angel does, though, and he was sent from heaven."

"I'm ignorant?" Meg's voice suddenly softened as she laid a hand on Christine's arm. "Christine, you should stop seeing him. A mysterious man beckoning you every day? I'm telling you, it's him. There's nothing but danger in speaking to him."

Christine ripped her hand away in disgust. "You're just jealous because he's come to me and not to you!"

Silence echoed through the room and Meg slowly stood and Christine closed her eyes as she exhaled slowly.

"I was just trying to help, Christine."

And with that, she turned and left the room to leave Christine alone once again. She had debated over and over in her mind whether or not to tell Meg about her angel. She told herself that Meg was her best friend, but at the same time reminded herself that her angel was sent from God. Could she tell someone about this divine being? Perhaps revealing her secret to Meg so many months ago had been a mistake.

She would be back soon, when Isabelle got back from lunch. Christine just hoped that by that time, she was either gone or prepared to both apologize for her words and forgive Meg for hers.

* * *

Somehow, Christine had avoided Meg through her last hours of work and was now headed to her daily lesson. She had only been walking for a few minutes, though, when she heard her name ring out through the hallway.

_Male voice. Shocked male voice. Who do I know? Father. Angel. No, this voice is young. A chorus member? No. This voice is elegant._

Her name resounded against the stone walls once more as she tried to remember the timbre of the utterance. She heard rapid footsteps as someone ran towards her and she stopped walking, lowering her hand from the wall slowly. She turned around to face the sound of the person coming towards her and waited silently until she felt someone reach out and lace their fingers gently with hers.

"Christine Daaé, I can't believe it's you!"

She didn't respond for several moments and bewilderment overtook her features.

"I'm sorry," she finally said, hoping that this would indicate her inability to identify the man holding her hands. Slowly, he brought of her hands up to his cheek.

_I can feel his smile. His cheek. His brow. Thin ridge above right eyebrow…Scar…From when we chased each other around the orchard! Raoul!_

Suddenly, with a gasp of joy, she threw her hands around his neck in an embrace. He, in return, wrapped his arms around her body before spinning her around once in pure shock. When he finally let her down, she was out of breath and flushed from her excitement.

"Raoul! What in the world are you doing here?" she demanded, wishing so dearly that she could see his matured features. All that she could picture in her mind was the young face of a boy who played with her before the accident.

"My brother has become a patron of the Opera Garnier and he has sent me to take a tour of the building. What are you doing here? Where is your father?" His questions and words were rushed, excited, hastily spilling out of his mouth in an excited windfall of joy.

Her smile only faltered for a moment, but she pushed herself to speak. "I work here. I'm afraid my father passed several years ago." It was then when she realized that people had stopped their usual bustle beneath the opera house. The sound of their footsteps had ceased, and she could hear whispers rippling about the gathered crowd. She could feel their eyes shooting knives at her, for what did a lowly blind worker girl have anything to do with a vicomte? Such things were certainly not to be borne. With a gulp, she continued. "I'm afraid that I must go, though, I'm late—…" He was grasping her hands once more.

"We must have dinner. Please say you will!"

"I'm afraid I—…" She pulled gently at her hands, but he held on with the gentlest resistance.

"Please, Christine."

She was silent, knowing that he would not relent. Her Angel had told her so many times that he was to be the driving force in her life. She was no to do frivolous things like go out to dinner or meet up with young men (not that her rank required much of either.) Despite her fear of his anger, she had known Raoul longer than her angel and she had to give him the courtesy of at least sitting down to dinner with him.

_Nothing else._

She was already late, though. Was that three days in a row their lessons had been delayed? With urgency, she pulled her hands free and gave Raoul a warm smile. "Tomorrow, I suppose," she said finally. "But I really must go. Meet me outside the opera house." She could only hope that her angel would not see her there. Surely his power would not extend past the walls of the Opera Garnier. Even God would want her to spend time with a long forgotten friend. Before he could respond, she had her hand back on the wall and was rushing down the hall in search of the dressing room.

* * *

Her hand met the doorknob and she hesitated, taking a deep breath. After the moment of preparation, she opened the door, closing it with a soft click behind her before standing in silence, waiting.

_Steady n—_

"How dare you."


	5. Of Rendezvous and Risoluto

The words reverberated against each of the four walls, every syllable painfully articulated in malevolent rage. Icy fingers crept around her neck and squeezed ever so slightly, choking her and depriving her of air. Her own hands shot up to her throat, only to find that nothing was there. It wasn't the words that had thickened the air and suffocated her. It was the heartless tone in which it had been said, and it was killing her.

She felt the presence of another being in the room, and an involuntary shiver raced across her body. She instinctively pressed herself against the aged door, her hand darting to the knob, searching desperately for an escape. Christine wrenched the metal violently, but with each turn, she heard the unmistakable click of the mechanism resisting her actions. She wasn't alone.

And then it hit her. This probably had nothing to do with Raoul or her dinner plans. His anger had likely arisen from her lateness for the third day in a row. Pushing herself from the door, she straightened and took in another deep breath. Her eyes were set rigidly in front of her, staring into murky fog, for she could not look down. She could not appear weak.

"I'm late." The words were strong, but there was something wavering underneath. There was something that was weak and frightened behind them—cowardice masked thinly with valor.

"What an astute observation." The words were clipped and unfeeling.

"I apologize." There was no use in crying or becoming emotional—it would do her no good.

"Perhaps I have not stressed how much time is lost through your childish antics?"

"I have no excuse." Worry had left her mind, and she stood strong, ready to face any consequences for her tardiness. There would be a short reprimanding and they would go on with their lessons.

"No, please, there must be something that you found more important than me."

"No, nothing."

"Extra work—is your head seamstress keeping you late? Or perhaps Carlotta is bothering you again. Or do you have some pressing appointment? A dinner engagement?" His voice trailed off and the absence of words left the room cold. She stood, mouth agape slightly as she wracked her mind for something to say, some response that she could offer.

"Nothing," was all she could manage to utter as she gulped slowly.

"Good. I know after all these years you would never lie to your angel."

Lying had never crossed her mind. Christine had never considered it an option, for how does one lie to an all-knowing being sent from heaven? In fact, not admitting to her interactions with Raoul was the first time she had withheld anything from him, and it was making her sick.

"You haven't forgotten our agreement, I presume."

He knew. There was no hiding any longer, for he would always know what she held in her mind. With a deep breath, she let escape from her lips what was so weighing on her conscience.

"Raoul is only a friend," she sighed, but his furious voice interrupted her.

"Raoul will never love you!" he thundered.

That had never crossed her mind either. Silence enveloped her and her mind raced. Such ideas had only resided in the depths of her soul, hidden. Love? The idea was nice, but she wasn't yet sure if she believed in such a thing. Before she could retort, he continued.

"Raoul  _can_  never love you. He is aristocracy and you are not. His family would forbid even friendship." It was softer, kinder.

"We were friends in Sweden," she responded defiantly.

"You were nothing but children then!"

"Aren't I still a child," she snapped. "Isn't that what you always call me?" She couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. She couldn't believe how rudely she was speaking to her mentor—her divine mentor at that!

There was no response, and a long silence followed her impertinence. Did he not know what to say, or would he not merit her insubordination with a response? Had he left?

"Besides, I don't think of him that way," she said stubbornly.

"I know everything, Christine," came his voice after a moment, low and omnipotent. "He will deceive you and he will leave you." Another pause. "But I will not. I will make you into a Prima Donna. Society thinks little of angels these days." His tone was wry.

Christine could feel hardwood beneath her fingers, and she realized suddenly that she was kneeling on the ground. She ran her fingertips over several floorboards, listening to the click her nails made, before she let her hands drop, resigned, by her sides.

"Stand up, child." The weary voice made her head raise and a new wave of goosebumps was sent up her arms. "You are stronger than this."

* * *

Twenty four hours never dragged on so slowly. He had barely paid attention during the tour of the Garnier and could barely sleep through the night. Excitement roared through his veins as his dinner with Christine grew nearer and nearer. Raoul had been so lonely during the last few months in France, and seeing someone from Sweden—Christine, at that—had risen his spirits greatly. His parents couldn't know about their meeting, of course. They had allowed it in Sweden, where they were still young and away from the public eye, but Paris was different. The rest of the world would always be different.

In Sweden, his summer house had been a short walk away from the Daaé cottage, and he could remember well the first strains of Monsieur Daaé's violin reaching his ears; tragic melodies and cadences drifting hauntingly through the air. The little girl with bright eyes running out of her cottage and skipping up to him, smiling, without a care in the world. Him, struggling with broken Swedish learned clumsily from a Swedish governess.

"Parlez-vous français?" She was giggling with mirth as he fumbled for words.

Not minding the informal address, he smiled. "Oui," he said gladly.

"Je vais à la mer. On y va?" She looked up at him before glancing down demurely—a seven year old already aware of her girlish charms.

It was the summer of her accident, but that fact never diminished their friendship. It wasn't until after her father died when she finally changed. No more flirty glances, no more bright eyes. Nothing to flaunt her childish beauty. She had been moved away to Paris that fall and he hadn't seen her since. He had been left with little more than a hastily scribbled note, no true explanation for her disappearance, no farewell.

But now, he was seeing her again. He would sit down and gaze into that face he adored so much as a child. He would watch the lips of the girl—no, woman—who had once told him stories at the sea, wind whipping through her hair.

He had been waiting at the entrance to the Garnier for just over an hour, and there was no sign of Christine. He knew that she worked, so he had assumed that she was simply kept a bit late, but surely she would not have forgotten. How could she have?

When he could wait no longer, he pushed open the doors of the Opera House and crossed the threshold before trekking down to the backstage door. He had to ask several people before he learned of Christine's whereabouts—an unused dressing room in one of the more abandoned corners of the Opera House. Raoul found himself nearly jogging as he made his way through the labyrinth of hallways before he finally reached her supposed location.

Bringing his ear to the aged door, he could hear her voice, though he could not make out her hushed words. Raising his fist to the door, he knocked twice, straightening before a resounding click met his ears.

"Have you locked the door?" He could hear her voice now. There were two people in this room—this locked room.

"Yes." It was a man's voice, and with realization, terror seized him.

"Why?" Her voice sounded light, almost amused.

"I worry about unwanted visitors, my dear." He heard her chuckle lightly, and he furrowed his brow as he brought his ear back to the door.

"You're not whispering in my ear anymore," she commented lightly.

"May I not do as I please?"

"Of course."

Raoul was just about to grab at the doorknob when he heard the man's voice again, low and commanding.

"I have something to show you," it said after a moment.

"But I can't—…" she began, but he continued.

"Something you don't need eyes to see." There was a gasp, a quick and feminine intake of air.

"Is that you?"

"I'm as real as you make me." A pause met his ears before he went on. "I'd like to take you away."

"Away?"

"I want to take you to my home where no one can find you."

"Where is your home? Is it time for me to go?"

The silence that followed was tensionless, affectionate even. He could hear her breathing, calm and collected without a worry in the world. Just as she had been with him.

"Oh, my Christine." The voice once so commanding was tender and caring. "Not yet."

"Lead me." Her voice was gentle; she had given her soul to the man in the room. What scared Raoul more than the man's presence was the fact that she had no fear.

"Do not be afraid."

"I'm not."

Raoul couldn't keep silent any longer. He yelled out her name in anguish, pounding on the door with numb fists, but he knew it was useless. The locked room was empty.

 


	6. Of Distance and Da Capo

_Scales. Far too many scales. I'm flat. I'm flat. I'm flat. Raise eyebrows. Perfect. Steady now, don't go sharp. Change exercises. Change his mind. Change to aria. Soar up, up, up, and away to an E and back down. Crescendo, rubato, a tempo. Voice crack. Did my voice just crack? After twenty minutes of tedious scales. Violin has stopped playing. Move to table to my left, reach for water, sip. Sip more. Sip all. Place cup back down. Resounding clink. Was that a knock? Just my imagination. Pick up aria and soar up, up…_

 

Christine was getting frustrated with herself, but for some reason, her angel was calm and quiet. He had no disappointed remark or flared temper—just resolute acceptance. Still, her voice was not meeting even her own expectations. She could do better and she knew it. And so, after she had set down the now empty glass of water, she took a deep breath, just about to begin once more when she heard a faint click.  
"Have you locked the door?" she asked simply, faintly wondering if she had done anything wrong.

"Yes," he responded with an equal air of nonchalance.

"Why?" She smiled slightly, nearly amused by his gesture.

"I worry about unwanted visitors, my dear." The smile turned into a laugh as her mind mulled over the comment—who would interrupt them? After all these years?

"You're not whispering in my ear anymore," she said automatically, her tone still light and relaxed.

"May I not do as I please?" It had only the slightest bite to it, and her smile faded away.

"Of course." She bowed her head submissively.

"I have something to show you." She raised her head, blinking curiously.

"But I can't—…"

_Has he forgotten? Surely angels can't forget._

"Something you don't need eyes to see."

Understanding had just emerged in her features when she felt a cold hand grasp hers, spindly fingers just barely touching hers. Smooth as porcelain, and just as lifeless. Christine gasped and instinctively tried to pull away, but the hands that felt so gentle and so fragile held on with resolute firmness.

"Is that you?" she asked breathlessly, barely able to get the words to escape from her tense throat.

"I'm as real as you make me." She was half convinced that her heartbeat could be heard echoing through the room, but she nonetheless kept her breathing steady. "I'd like to take you away."

"Away?" The words were quiet, the shaky word uttered from trembling lips.

"I want to take you to my home where no one can find you."

_That should scare me. That should horrify me. I should wrench my hand away and run to the door in terror. I should… But I can't. His voice… So melodic. I want to go. I want to go!_

"Where is your home?" It was tentative. "Is it time for me to go?" She felt her hand unconsciously squeeze his ever so slightly.

"Oh, my Christine." It was horribly tender, spoken with heart-wrenching adoration. "Not yet."

Before he had even finished his last words, she had continued, her voice running to catch his. "Lead me." She raised her other hand and placed it gently over his. Her senses were being clouded. Her already foggy grey vision was turning black as pitch. His words were become hushed ever so slightly as her hearing which she depended on so dearly was slowly leaving her.

"Do not be afraid," he tried to reassure her as if he knew that she was gradually losing her grip on reality.

"I'm not." It was a definitive statement, a testament to her certainty.

She only had time to hear her name being called vaguely in the distance before she was surrounded with damp walls and the earthy smell of dirt and rock.

_We are underground. We are descending. Angels live in heaven. I don't understand. Hand on wall. Dirt crumbling beneath my fingers. Drip. Drip. Drip. Where is the water coming from? Hand to rock. Angel's hand, grabbing mine._

"You mustn't touch."

_Yes. Yes, I mustn't. Crunch of gravel. It's not crisp in my ears. It's muddy._

His hand hadn't left hers after his small reprimanding. He was holding it loosely, leading her without a word. She couldn't help but feel she was disturbing something. Despite her distorted hearing she could feel the difference between the angel's countenance and her own. There was a precious silence here that her feet disrupted, while the being in front of her moved with deft agility and grace. Each rustle of clothing was magnified in the stagnant air. It was cold. The first snow had just come but this was different. She was more chilled here than above ground yet there was no wind, no trace of outside air permeating the still and suffocating passage long forgotten by human-kind.

It was becoming difficult to hear anything at all now, her feet numb to the feeling of earth beneath her.

_I'm flying…_

Just as the thought raced through her mind the hem of her skirt caught itself beneath her foot, and her stomach dropped as she began to fall. It seemed that everything happened at the slowest pace—her fingers grasping at the darkness and catching only air, her small shriek of surprise, and his hands catching her safely around the waist. For such a lithe being he was strong.

Time stretched as they walked and walked. She was terribly unsure of where they were, how far underground they had descended, when and if they would ever stop. He spoke not a word as they continued on, not even as they slowed to a stop and he took her other hand into his. They stepped slowly, tentatively, onto shaky ground. Guiding her to the floor, he released her hands.

_I am alone. He has left me. Is that water?_

The dulled sounds of waves lapping against gravel and the side of a wooden surface met her ears. She reached down and felt moving water beneath her numb fingertips, icy cold.

"Keep your hands away," he said, making no move to stop her. "There are creatures in the lake. They might steal you away if you disturb them."

His voice was muddled, and she could barely comprehend what he was saying to her. The words were echoing in her mind, and she pulled her hand out slowly, ignoring the drops of water marring her dress. And then silence. A gentle rocking put her to sleep and she knew no more.

* * *

It was too easy. Perhaps I should have given myself a challenge, but few things challenge me anymore.

Before she came to our lesson, I set out her water. The same crystal glass on the same table, everything in place just as it had been for years. But just one little change—laudanum. Interesting how a few drops of a simple liquid can change everything. She sang poorly, but I said nothing. Would she wonder at my complacency? But I watched her drink the water in one gulp and I knew it was over. She was mine.

And then that damned fop came. I knew he would, and I had a plan. I would make him squirm, and I would revel in his agony. I spoke to the whole room, not just into Christine's ear as she was accustomed, just loud enough for him to make out my words.

"Have you locked the door?" I was proud, for her words held no fear.

"Yes," I said with equal simplicity and confidence.

"Why?" I could see a smile forming on her lips, and a ghost of a grin flickered over my face. Not only was her tone serving my own selfish needs, but that _boy_  outside heard every word and I knew it was killing him.

"I worry about unwanted visitors, my dear." Just for you, Chagny.

"You're not whispering in my ear anymore," she remarked matter-of-factly. It was for these reasons I loved her. She was not frightened of me and was not afraid to speak candidly in my presence.

"May I not do as I please?" I reserved my commanding tone, for it was no longer a playful game. She would respond in accordance, bending to my will.

"Of course." Perfection.

"I have something to show you." My words were calculated, for I knew I could scare her away if I was not somewhat careful. She was dancing just beyond my fingertips, and soon I would have her, mind and soul.

"But I can't—…"

"Something you don't need eyes to see." She was too focused on the physical world around her. She did not understand, nor would she until she had the opportunity to reside in my world for a time.

I stood at a distance, watching her, anticipating her movements. I stood at a precipice. Everything would change in a few moments. Those hands at her sides—I would touch them! I would take her and steal her away. I would stand in front of her and stare into her eyes without worrying about being caught. This time, she would know I was there.

I approached her slowly, silently, reaching out for her hand. I willed my fingertips not to shake, and they stood still. Countless times, I had imagined this scene and I had always been in control. I would be in control. My fingers wrapped around hers lightly and when she retracted, I held tight.

"Is that you?" I couldn't speak for a moment. I had never imagined past that first touch. I never knew how she would respond to me.

"I'm as real as you make me," I said in a low voice, for it was true. My whole existence rested solely in her belief. If she were to lose faith, who would know me? But I could not reside on these thoughts. I had to move forward and quickly for the boy was still outside. "I'd like to take you away."

"Away?" I couldn't tell whether her trembling was from uncertainty or hope…Or fear.

"I want to take you to my home where no one can find you." She had spoken with such frankness earlier; I owed her the same courtesy.

"Where is your home?" The question, spoken just like a child, relieved me. She had not run away yet. "Is it time for me to go?" The fear was so childlike, and it tugged at my heart like nothing had before. This poor girl, thinking I would kill her. And yet she still wasn't running. She would die for me.

"Oh, my Christine." I wanted to hold her, cradle her, tell her I loved her and that nothing would harm her. "Not yet." Her next words were spoken with such willingness that they overlapped mine.

"Lead me." And that was all I needed.

"Do not be afraid." I was trying to reassure the child before me, but she needed no encouragement.

"I'm not."

Just at that moment, Chagny yelled out her name, but when she didn't turn to him, I knew the laudanum had begun to take effect. He could call all he liked, but Christine was mine. I led her through the mirror, and it was over.

Her senses were picking up the subtleties of the underground—the damp earth, the muffled noises, the still air. She was trying to understand her environment, bringing her fingers to the dirt walls, but I stopped her.

"You mustn't touch." It was gentle, and she complied by lowering her hand to her side without argument.

Her feet were loud and she knew it. She was trying so hard to quiet herself, to make her presence unknown, but the sleepiness that the laudanum induced crippled her attempts. Sweet girl, trying to be unobtrusive. I reached back for her hand and held it just a little tighter, for she wouldn't know the difference now. Numbness was taking over her body and her senses were being clouded. Soon she would remember little of our journey.

I felt her hand fall as she stumbled over her dress, and in an instant, I had her around the waist, and the proximity made me breathless for just a moment. I helped her back up, and before long we were at the shore. She would be asleep soon, for even she could not hold on much longer. She had been trying, dear girl, to cling to consciousness to see what heaven her angel was bringing her to. I took her other hand into mine, and helped her gently into the waiting boat. I sat her down and as I began to row us away, her fingers fell demurely into the lake. I watched her with amusement, before reluctantly reprimanding her.

"Keep your hands away. There are creatures in the lake. They might steal you away if you disturb them." She mustn't know that she could leave with ease.

Only a few moments after she lifted her fingers from the water, she fell asleep. It would be dreamless and she would wake up with few memories of the descent. Tomorrow would be the true test of her loyalty to her angel. Tomorrow, she would be fully conscious, aware of her decisions and of me. Tomorrow would decide our future. Tomorrow…


	7. Of Sight and Subito

It was dark. There was no natural sunlight in the room, only the dim and faint hint of a candle at the far end of the room—a speck of light in a sea of darkness. It was damp and cold, far more humid than any rainy day above ground. She had visited the Salzburg salt mines many years ago on a vacation and they had felt just like this—air thick with moisture, the smell of earth overwhelming her senses…Yes, she was underground.

Gradually, the events of the night before ran through her mind and panic seized her. It wasn't that she was taken by her angel that scared her. No, it was that she was in a mysterious place with no sense of direction or space. Quickly, her fingers grasped at her surroundings. She was in a large bed covered in silk and velvet sheets. Her fingers ran delicately along the velvet lining, momentarily savoring its indescribable texture. The duvet was large, probably goose down to combat the chill of the underground. The bed and pillows had not been slept in before. They were so very different from hers in the Opera House that were so lumpy and overused, springs broken and pillow stiff.

_He is rich. How else could he afford such luxuries? But he was God sent. Does that mean he was sent with money? Why do angels require so much? I must not question. I must find him. Swing feet from underneath covers to floor. Cool hardwood on toes. Shivers. Hands ahead, take small step. Stop. Something is moving the air. Something is in this room. There is a presence._

"Who's there?" There was no answer, and she brought her hand out to find the bed once more to steady herself. When she couldn't feel it in her immediate reach, she gulped nervously, completely disoriented.

"Where am I?" she called out, closing her eyes slowly. "Angel, it's you, isn't it?" Her breath caught in her throat and she hoped and prayed it was not some other unknown being.

"It is I." His voice was soft, carrying from the far end of the room opposite the candle.

"Angel!" She made a move towards him, but her foot met a large rug and she stumbled. Her hand caught the ground to steady herself and she carefully stood back up, vowing to stay still.

"You must be careful, my dearest." He made no move towards her.

"Where am I?" she repeated, surprised at how clearly her voice reverberated through the room.

Just when she thought he was not going to answer, his voice rang out. "That is for another day."

"What?" she asked bemused, almost daring to take another step towards him. "Then you must tell me  _why_  I am here…At least that!" She thought of the impertinence of her tone only after the words had escaped her lips.

Another moment before he spoke. "It is time to go beyond tedious hour lessons once a day."

"What about my work? Meg, Madame Giudicelli, Raoul!" she exclaimed as her stomach knotted nervously.

"Distractions," he responded simply, tone mildly aloof. "We were not getting enough done with those…three…always on your mind."

"Why now?"

"Also for another day, my darling." The tone of annoyance that had just begun to creep into his voice when referring to Raoul had all but disappeared, and his voice was filled with pure adoration. "Come. We begin now." Christine was about to ask how she was to find her way when she felt his hand grasp hers as he led her out of the room.

The days that followed were each the same. She awoke at her will, and he was always there to lead her to a music room where they sang for hours and hours, breaking only for food. They ate in silence—or more so, she ate in silence and he remained there, watchful. And then, as soon as she had finished, they went back to rehearsal.

She sang everything. Scales, runs, solos, duets, arias. Music she was very familiar with and music she had never heard, accompanied by every instrument she could imagine. He could play anything she wanted on violin or piano or organ or clarinet or oboe. Anything under the sun was at her fingertips.

Soon, Christine began to lose track of the days. Without the rising or setting of the sun to keep track of time, she had no sense of how long she was there. They could have rehearsed at the wee hours of the morning for all she knew. She worried for the first few days of her stay of her position at the Opera House and of Raoul, but when she heard no word of them, her worries disappeared. Afterall, her angel assured her over and over that her job would not be forfeited and that she had no reason to fret. It took all the faith she could muster to trust in him.

* * *

She slept for so long. The drugs kept her unconscious, wasting so much time, but it was a precaution that had to be made. I sat stock still in the corner of the room all night, just in case she woke up. I knew she would be so frightened if no one was there for her, unable to navigate this new place. An all night vigil… But then, when have I ever slept?

When she began to stir, I felt as if I could read her mind. I watched the cogs in her head turn slowly as the night came back to her. Taking in the darkness, the air, the bed… What she thought of all this, I had no idea. I watched the dread cross her face as she worried about her disorientation and I felt a pang of some emotion—surely not guilt—for not making myself known.

She struggled to get out of the bed and I stood. She heard the shift in the air and froze. A smile came to my face, proud of my Christine's keen ears. She caught every noise, every movement with that impeccable hearing. She called out and I remained silent, wanting to see any reaction I could.

After a few more cries of confusion, I finally made myself known. My poor Christine nearly fell to the ground when she tried to follow my voice, but still I made no move towards her. She would catch herself and learn to move slower through unknown places. Dear child…

She asked questions and I couldn't answer her just yet. If I made her aware of my plans, she might try to escape in fear, lose her trust in me. No, I would keep my master plans secret and just tell her about her lessons. Of course, she objected at first, worrying about those things she thought took priority in her life. It took all of my being not to growl at Chagny's name, for I knew that he was still dear to her. She didn't understand. She was naïve and ignorant.

She will forget about them in due time. For now, we will rehearse.

* * *

Time passed without alteration, and Christine slowly felt herself being lost to the music. Only when she had ceased to think about the Opera House above did Christine's world finally change. She woke up, was brought to breakfast, and as she finished, he did not lead her to the music room. Instead, he told her, "I must bring you somewhere." She didn't question, but simply stood and followed his guiding hand.

They crossed the lake, where she was careful to keep her hands folded neatly her lap. They walked the labyrinth once more, ascending back to the real world. They reached solid ground and the air thinned, the thick humidity gone. They walked and walked through darkness, no words passing between them and no noise emanating from her surroundings.

Christine didn't gain her bearings until she entered the backstage door that led to the stage. He was bringing her to the nearly bare stage that was being prepared for  _Aida_. She listened to her feet pad across the masonite before she heard the noise echo as she reached the house. Her keen ears could hear her breathing echo slightly throughout the vast and empty hall. It had to be some obscure hour, for there seemed to always be someone on the stage during the work day.

"We are on the stage," she said softly, afraid to disturb the still air.

"Yes we are."

When he gave no explanation, she continued. "Why?"

"In two weeks time,  _Aida_  will premiere at the Garnier. Every person of wealth and class will sit in these seats to observe the tragedy. There will be ovations and roses and gifts for the Prima Donna, who will graciously bow after her triumph. She will be adored and praised long after the curtain has closed. That Prima shall be you, Christine. Madame Giudicelli will meet with an unfortunate accident in ten days in which she will be incapacitated past the point of performing. You will take her place with four days of rehearsal time with the rest of your cast. And, at the end of that last night, we shall astonish Paris ."

She didn't speak. Thoughts raced through her mind as she replayed his even-toned, calculated words through her head over and over.

 _That Prima…That Prima shall be you, Christine. Ovations and roses and gifts. Graciously. Adored and praised. You, Christine. We shall_  astonish  _Paris._

"That would be impossible," she said as she finally conjured up the composure to speak.

"And why is that?" he asked calmly. She could feel his body displacing the air around her as he moved slowly behind her, observing her.

Christine had lost the ability to speak once more, the words choking in her throat. After several moments of silence, she felt his wrist against her back, gently leading her.

"Our rehearsal begins tonight. I will teach you the blocking when the theatre is empty and we won't be disturbed, and you shall perfect your singing with me, below the Opera House." She opened her mouth to object, but he spoke again. "No questions now. We have too much work and time is ticking away."

They began at the top, marking out every step and gesture she would make. He only barely touched her, his fingers feather-light against her arms and back as he guided her along. It seemed that every time those fingertips touched her skin, involuntary shivers ran through her limbs, though he either did not notice, or he simply did not comment.

As they reached the third act, fatigue had begun to set in as Christine began to find it harder and harder to remember his instructions. There were lengths of time where she would follow him in a daze before realizing that she couldn't remember a thing she had done. Her thoughts were interrupted by his reprimanding voice behind her.

"Do now step that far! You are in the river, you've gone too far. Aida does not  _drown_ in the Nile ."

With a sigh of frustration, Christine took a step back. Lines of worry etched themselves into her face and she looked down, waiting for his cue.

"Why do you look so perturbed?" he asked her, unmoving from his place behind her.

"You are disappointed in me," she told him shakily, furious with herself for her petty mistake.

"I am nothing of the sort. This is your first time attempting this blocking. I don't expect you to be perfect; that comes later. Besides, you will have to work twice as hard as any other Prima because you have lost one of your most vital senses." A pause. "That being said, you are not being attentive. What happened at the end of the last Act?"

"I am told that Radames has died," Christine responded immediately.

"No! No, that is not the end of Act 2." When Christine made no move to respond, he sighed. "Begin again."

Christine began to make her movements, but only a few steps in, she felt his hands grabbing her arms.

"You are in the river again! Can you not concentrate? Shall we have to stop? I had hoped to go through the entire opera once! Are you not ready for that? Can you not handle being a Prima Donna?" His temper was flaring, but she could not control herself as he wished.

"No!" Christine finally exclaimed, pulling herself out of his grasp. "No, I cannot! I cannot see, I don't know where I am; I'll surely fall off the edge or run into the proscenium and become the  _laughing stock_  of Paris, not an astonishing ingénue. I cannot do this!" Her weariness had heightened her emotions, and she could feel tears stinging her eyes.

And then, in his usual fashion, his voice was once again soft and comforting. "Christine… When it is the darkest, that is when you can see the stars."

"I cannot see them, though!" Christine brought her hands up to cover her tear-filled eyes, ashamed.

"If you can trust me, I can help you see them," he said as he stepped forward, taking her hands gently and pulling them from her face. "You must have faith in me. If you do, we can do it, together." Slowly, he let go of her hands and she could feel his eyes boring into hers, waiting.

"I cannot do it," she finally said meekly, closing her eyes as several more tears passed the threshold of her eyelids.

"What is this word, cannot?" he asked her, moving about to circle her. "Why can't you simply trust me? Faith is easy—to have faith is to believe some power cannot be seen. You should know that better than anyone!" Patience was thinning once again.

"But I cannot even see  _you_!"

"But nothing! Even your silly Bible says that you walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, you have faith in this petty god of yours. God killed your father. He left you blind. He left you in darkness!  _I_  gave you the voice of an angel, and  _I_  alone will make you the most extraordinary Prima Donna Paris—no, the world!—has ever seen, yet your faith still lies with  _him_!"

"You said you were sent from God!"

"I lied."

The voice was just behind her ear, malign as ever, and she spun without thinking. Her hands came up instinctively; whether in protection or out of curiosity, she wasn't sure. Her fingers barely brushed cold porcelain before she recoiled, fast as lightning. He didn't move.

_I'm wrong. Steady now, I did not feel that. There was no mask on his face. He is my angel come to me in human form. No phantom, just an angel. Just an angel._

Slowly, her fingers came back to the figure in front of her, for he still hadn't moved. She could feel the skin on his jaw and relief flooded through her body. He was stony still as her fingertips crept upwards cautiously, just to be sure. It wasn't until her shrieks rang through the Opera House that he finally stole away from her touch. No word. No sound.

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" She could hear Monsieur Firmin's feet as he ran up the aisle of the house.

"He's going to hurt her," she shrieked again without thinking. He had lied to her. What trust could she have in a deceitful  _man_  who spent his hours tricking ballerinas, toying with the Prima Donna, and weaving a web of lies? And all of this just to ensnare the imaginations of an

Opera House and to bend the will of a young seamstress. Her breath caught in her throat as she became light headed. "The Phantom of the Opera! He was here!" Yes, she would ruin his plan just as he had ruined her faith. She just barely heard the manager call her name again, this time in question, before she crashed to the stage floor, senses gone.


	8. Of Offenses and Operas

"Christine?" The voice sounded distant and vaguely familiar, but fatigue hindered Christine from even attempting to identify it. "Christine, can you hear me?" It was clearer now, just slightly crisper against her ears, but she had little motivation to respond. "Dear child…" The words weren't meant for her, but she heard them nonetheless. After a moment of thought, her senses seized and she fought through all exhaustion to speak. Only one man she knew referred to her as a child now that her father had died. It was her angel, right there next to her, tending to her.

"Angel…" It was hoarse and could barely be heard, but she felt the being near her stop suddenly and turn to look down at her. Tension had risen in the air.

"Angel?" the voice asked quickly and a hand came to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. The hand was warm… It was not the glacial, skeletal hand of her angel… No, not an angel at all. He had been the Phantom of the Opera. And who was this here? His hand was warm and his bones did not stick out unnaturally as  _his_  had.

"Oh, Christine…" She recognized it now. Her eyes opened quickly, though her world only turned from black to a foggy grey. With a sharp intake of breath, she brought her own hand up desperately to grasp his.

"Raoul," she said breathlessly, tightening her hold slightly on his hand. Her thoughts were racing—was Carlotta alright? Had someone seen the Phantom on stage with her last night? What had happened?

"Christine!" He spoke with surprise and she could feel his eyes boring into hers. "Are you alright?" His voice was frantic with worry, but she didn't hear his words.

"Where is Carlotta?" she demanded quickly, and when he began to protest to her question, she repeated herself more forcefully. "Raoul, where is Carlotta!"

He was silent for a moment, though Christine could not understand why. Finally, he responded. "She was here earlier, and she's fine." There was silence again as Christine let out a sigh of relief. "Christine," he continued. "What has this  _man_  put into your head?"

Her breath caught and her grip on his hand loosened somewhat. "What do you mean?"

"I heard him in your dressing room. Before you disappeared." Another pause, and when Christine refused to respond, he pressed on. "You must tell me what is going on."

She burst out without thought. "It's the Phantom of the Opera!" she shrieked. "He stole me away and lied to me and he's going to hurt Carlotta!" For a moment she worried that he was somewhere in this room, somewhere hidden in the walls, but she pushed these inhibitions aside.

"This is madness!" His voice rang out in interruption and she recoiled slightly. "Christine, the Phantom of the Opera is a myth that silly ballerinas tell to the young ballet rats. He  _doesn't exist_."

"Yes he does!" she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. "He was there on the stage with me and I felt his mask and he's going to do something awful to her!"

"Christine…" Raoul said, suddenly quite softly. "This is fanciful." His fingers ran gently across her forehead. "It's clear that a man has lied to you and has taken advantage of your blindness… And I will find out who he is and make sure he is properly reprimanded. But it was a  _man_ , not some phantom."

"You don't understand," Christine said desperately, her eyes welling up with frustrated tears as she pleaded.

"I'll keep you safe," he continued, his hand suddenly grasping hers. "I'll protect you."

"It is not  _I_  who needs protecting," she pleaded, but she already knew that this fight had been lost. She let out a shaky breath and gently laid herself back down, burdened with the knowledge that Carlotta would be injured without doubt.

* * *

The following week was strewn with terror for Christine. Every moment, both awake and asleep, was wracked with thoughts of the Phantom of the Opera. As she passed around every corner, she half expected to hear him or run into him. She braced herself for his touch at all hours of the day, preparing herself for his icy cold hands. When she didn't go to lessons and instead did extra work in the House, she worried that she would hear him reprimanding her.

But none of this occurred. Apparently he had not only stopped interacting with her, but also ceased to torture Carlotta and the ballet rats over the course of the week, because she heard no stories of his presence for once. It was as if he had completely disappeared from the Opera House altogether.

On the Friday before Aida was to open, though, she knew exactly what was coming when Meg came to the House and told her timidly that she was to come to the stage. Christine had begged her as they hurried down the hallways to explain what was happening, but Meg kept saying that she wasn't allowed to say anything. It was Carlotta. He hadn't disappeared after all.

As soon as they reached the stage, Christine nearly spit out that something had happened to Carlotta, but she knew that this would create immediate suspicion. Instead, she gulped as her eyes scanned the shadows standing across the stage, feeling their eyes upon her.

"You'll be playing Aida, Ms. Daaé," were the blunt words of Monsieur Firmin and she heard a scoff downstage of her.

"What?" She was still breathless from the running and her mind was spinning in panic.

"You heard him." They were the disdainful words of Monsieur Piangi who was standing just to her left.

"What about Carlotta?" She prayed with all of her being that she was not severely wounded, or worse—dead. She would no longer put it past her angel of death.

"She has broken her right leg and cannot perform next week."

"But why me?" she demanded, though she knew this answer as well.

There was a pause as Firmin considered this, but he continued frankly. "This is not the place to discuss such things." Yes, she could feel the apprehension emanating from the performers surrounding them.

"Rehearsals will start tonight. I have been told…" He stopped suddenly, clearing his throat as he changed his mind. "I hope that you will be prepared for the role." With that, she could hear him retreating across the stage and Meg was pulling her off of the stage. When they were safely in the wings and out of the earshot of the other performers, Christine clasped Meg's arm.

"Please tell me what really happened."

Meg didn't speak for a moment and Christine assumed that she was planning her words carefully or perhaps debating whether or not to even speak.

"They received a letter yesterday…" she murmured under her breath so that the stagehands that were milling about couldn't hear. "My mother told me about it… It said that Carlotta's fall was an unfortunate accident and that  _he_  had the perfect replacement for her… You. It was merely a suggestion, and the producers were unsure of whether or not they were going to follow the instruction. I suppose the Phantom knew that there was ambivalence, because this morning another letter came that threatened Piangi…He said that he would be more than willing to break both of Piangi's legs if they did not obey him."

Christine's breath caught in her throat as she listened to Meg's words. Threats…

"You will perform, won't you?" Meg asked tentatively, still somewhat winded.

"I don't know…" Christine admitted, barely able to speak.

"You must!" Christine closed her eyes and furrowed her eyebrows in concern before Meg continued. "You don't know what he will do if you don't perform… He could come after  _you_ …Or Raoul…" Christine's eyes flew open and a deep frown became etched in her face. "Christine, even though you have said nothing of it, I know that your angel is the Phantom, and I don't think any less of you for believing. But things are becoming dangerous.  _He broke her leg_. You must do what he says!"

Christine's face went blank and she nodded slowly. "It seems so."

* * *

That night she was led to the stage by Meg who had whispered a "good luck" to her as she left to regain her position on stage. Every person on stage was staring at her, judging her every breath. No one thought she should be there… She could feel the animosity radiating around her and she wanted nothing more than to run and hide in the House.

"She's blind, you know…" she heard a woman mutter behind her, but Christine didn't give her the satisfaction of turning around.

This was the only semblance of a welcome she received before she heard the conductor tap his stand and play a note on the piano. "We'll be starting with your aria in act three. O patria mia. You are familiar with it?" Condescension laced his voice, but she merely nodded politely. "Then let us begin."

The orchestra was not in, but this did not faze her. She had rehearsed these pieces extensively with a mere violin, so she knew she could do it with the simple rehearsal piano. After a short intro, she took a deep breath and began to sing. It was weak and unsupported and she realized in the back of her head that she had not been allowed to warm up. She couldn't complain, though. She had to prove herself. When her voice cracked on the first high note, she could hear snickers behind her as the conductor stopped her.

He and Firmin didn't think she could hear them as they whispered to each other, discussing the appropriateness of his casting, but her acute hearing picked it up easily. Her heart seized and she called out. "Please, let me try again," she said meekly, and they stopped talking.

"Very well," the conductor said and the intro came again.

"Have courage…" She couldn't be sure whether or not she had truly heard the words in her ear, but either way, she squared her shoulders and took another deep breath. Despite her inability to warm up, she could feel tension release in her throat as she reached the first high notes, allowing them to soar. There was no more snickering.

"Step to your left." The direction was inaudible to all others—in fact, she was fairly sure she had heard it in her head. It was the Phantom…He was here… Her eyes narrowed slightly, wishing more than anything that she could face him but knowing that such a thing was impossible. Nevertheless, she took several steps to the left in passion as she came to the high C.

"Perfection…" she heard him say to her as she came to the end of the aria, holding onto the high A with crystalline delicacy. Despite her inhibitions, she felt herself smiling to herself. He was proud, and even though she wanted to hate him for it, she was giddy with elation. Christine released the note into the air and silence met her ears for only a moment before applause overtook it.

"Brava!" she heard the conductor gasp in awe and she nearly doubled over in diffidence. "Yes, this will do just wonderfully. Please, please, let us continue on."

He was there in the room and he was smiling to her. He was pleased and for a fleeting moment, she forgot every wrong that he committed and venerated him once again. Only for a moment.

* * *

The next day after work, Christine found that she had an indescribable desire to go to their rehearsal room. Yes, they normally had lessons at this time and her voice longed to stretch out and be free. Against her common sense, she found herself walking slowly to the practice room, taking her time as she felt the concrete wall underneath her fingers while she walked, savoring each rivet in the stone blocks. He would be there. She didn't know how she knew this, but she did. If she went, she would have to face him. But somehow, this did not deter her as she turned the corner and felt for the doorknob, reveling in its cool metallic façade.

She opened the door slowly and closed it with equal care after she had stepped inside. Christine took several steps forward, finding the spot she normally stood in for their lessons before planting herself there.

"Bravo, monsieur," she said monotonously, resisting the urge to fiddle with her dress nervously as she spoke. She would not appear weak.

"What do you mean?" Ah yes, he was there. She had no idea where for the voice had come from all directions as per usual. It was quieter than normal, a bit less forward, but still powerful.

"Breaking a woman's leg. I knew you always did things with class." Where were these words coming from? She had never spoken to a person in such a way and she was shocked that she had the strength to do so now.

"Do not pretend that you are suddenly above me, my dear, simply because you know what I am," he retorted. "I am still your teacher, and had I chosen to, I could have remained your angel." The words silenced her, ironically because he had spoken them without malice. They were astonishingly gentle with just the smallest bite.

"Of course…" she responded, frowning slightly to herself.

"You know you mustn't be afraid of me," he told her softly and she felt a bit of the tension in her shoulders give way. "You know what I am now…But I would never hurt you. Everything that I do is for you and I would rather die than cause you any harm." She had never heard him speak like this before and despite her doubts, she felt a pang of forgiveness in the back of her heart.

"How could you break her leg?" she asked quietly, shaking her head somewhat in disbelief.  
"I had to. Do you think they would have fired Carlotta and replace her with you without some coercion? This is the only language these people understand," he told her tenderly in his attempt to make her understand. When she didn't respond, he continued. "Christine, I am going to make you a star. Together, we shall astound the world. They shall be rendered speechless by your beauty and your talent. This is what you've always wanted!"

"Perhaps…" she murmured as her heart began to beat a bit faster. But what was he to gain from this? Was she to be his forever? Was she to be his Persephone? His voice interrupted her thoughts.

"There is someone at the door, my child."

"What?" she asks, furrowing her brow before she heard the doorknob turn and the door open.

"Who are you talking to?" It was Raoul. He had probably heard about Carlotta and asked Meg where she was. Perhaps now he would believe her…

"No one," she said automatically. In her mind, she couldn't understand why she was defending or protecting the Phantom. Hadn't she just tried to rat him out the day before?

"I heard you, you were talking to someone," Raoul said, his voice rather frantic. He was moving around the room and she could hear the sound of his hand against the wallpaper. "Where is he?"

"Raoul, I was simply rehearsing my aria. I would be very grateful if you would leave me to my practice," she said smoothly, moving her head to follow the sound of his body.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, coming up to her and putting a hand on her shoulder gently. "You told me he was real just yesterday. I didn't believe you then, but I have heard about Carlotta and I trust you now. Please, let me help you!" His words held such a genuine tone of concern that she almost admitted it all to him. Almost.

"And you didn't trust me yesterday?" Behind the walls, her angel—her Phantom—was grinning to himself. Yes, he had been thinking the same thing.

Raoul was caught off guard by this statement. He stumbled over his words momentarily before clearing his throat and trying again. "Christine, all I want to do is watch over you and ensure that you are out of harm's way." He paused. "I think you should go back to your room for the night. I would feel much better if you were there." He was leading her to the door, his hands gently guiding her and resisting protest. "Please do not be cross with me," he said almost inaudibly before he closed the door behind her and locked himself inside. He listened for her retreating footsteps which he heard after a moment of hesitation.

"Who do you think you are?" Raoul asked the empty room, walking about the edges slowly. "How dare you trick her! How dare you try to manipulate her and bend her to your will. She is blind! I swear by all that I know, if you have touched her or harmed her in any way, I will hunt you down. Do you hear me!" His words were echoing through the room over and over as he yelled to no one. "You're there and I know you are. You're a coward for hiding," he said, quieter. He stopped moving as he reached the center of the room and he surveyed the walls, hoping for some sign of movement.

"You underestimate her abilities, Monsieur." The words were cold and calculated, coming from every angle and enveloping Raoul in malevolence. "I would think twice about controlling her as you do. Oh yes, I know what you want. While I live, despite your childish fancies, I will ensure that she will never love you. I can promise you that, my dearest patron."

With that, Raoul heard his laughter reverberating against the walls and in a frenzy, Raoul ran to the walls, banging against each space her could reach. He was behind one of these walls, if only he could find the way through. It was in vain, though. Long after the laughter had stopped, he still could not find his way through. And so, when fatigue had finally overtaken Raoul, he trudged the door in defeat, turning the knob in order to leave. Just before he stepped through the threshold, though, he murmured under his breath, "This is not over, Monsieur le fantôme."

 


	9. Of Contention and Counterpoint

It was opening day. Morning, technically, for the clock had struck midnight only seconds ago, but the night is always young for an insomniac. I knew that Christine had gotten an early night's sleep far from my underground abode, and I therefore retreated contemplatively to my study. This time tomorrow, everything will have changed. The world will know the voice I have molded so deftly. Thoughts of a similar nature had been ebbing through my mind all day, but as I sat down, they seemed to overtake me.

I've always found that time ceases to exist once I enter the recesses of my mind. As I sat wrapped up in my indelible thoughts time ticked by unnoticed, eyes trained forward and focused on the point where the floor meets the wall. Midnight thirty. Quarter after one. Two. How I will berate myself for getting so lost. How I will torture myself tomorrow for not hearing the footsteps across the house from me sooner.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Of course it would be him. So close to our success, he  _had_  to come and complicate things. And at two in the morning no less—he knew me far too well to know that I'd be sitting here, awake as ever. I didn't even turn around. I would never give him that satisfaction.

"Nadir." My words were calm, but terse with a touch of coldness. I would have told him that I was unaware of his presence of Paris, but we both knew we kept tabs on each other.

"Erik."

"I reserve that name for friends," I responded quickly, turning only my eyes towards the door where he stood, shoulders squared-off as if preparing for a fight.

"What shall I call you then?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

"I would like you to leave." It took all my control not the grip the armchair in abject exasperation. Must appear as collected as possible.

"You did not even ask how I managed to find you or gain entrance to your home," he mused, crossing his arms with feigned informality.

"If you want to insult your own intelligence, go right ahead. I wasn't about to," I snapped, pressing my lips together with impatience.

"Come now, can you not acknowledge an old companion?"

"That depends on why you're here."

I finally turned my head and looked at him with narrowed eyes. There was a long pause and I knew I had struck a chord in that malleable heart of his. Yes, he was not here to casually catch up or share a cup of tea, but for other business. Less pleasant business.

"You have caught me, old friend." With a strained smile, the Daroga stepped farther into the room, waiting for me to offer him a chair near me. When I didn't, he reluctantly seated himself and let out a troubled sigh. "You have been up to some mischief, Erik."

"Do not come into my home and treat me like a child, Daroga," I warned, fury pumping through my veins momentarily. "Say what you need to say and kindly take your leave."

He was not taken aback for he was quite used to my demeanor, but he did take another moment to collect himself before trekking on.

"Very well. Christine Daaé. I presume you know her." He watched me for a reaction and I gave him none.

"The seamstress, yes?" I asked innocently.

"You said you would not insult my intelligence, Erik. Do not play these games," Nadir cautioned, irritation lacing his voice.

"No need to get touchy—besides, I don't play games,  _old friend_ ," I told him with sickly sweetness, a wry smile spreading underneath my mask.

He took another moment, this time to gather his aggravation. I watched as he stared down at the rug for several seconds, and I was unafraid to meet his eyes as he brought them back up. "Raoul de Chagny came to me, Erik. When he told me of a phantom menacing an Opera, stealing away blind girls and teaching them to be Prima Donnas... Mon Dieu, Destler, this has your name written all over it."

A genuine smile almost crossed my face—almost. I stood up quickly, crossing the room to inspect an arbitrary painting in order to hide my delight. "Yes, well, you've caught me. Only on the first part, though. Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than kidnap young stagehands?"

I heard Nadir stand up as well, though he didn't make a move towards me. "No, in fact, I don't." He clearly wasn't having as much fun as I was.

I turned around rapidly, spreading my arms boastingly with a wide grin. "Well, my friend, it is opening day! What can be done now? The past is the past, as we say, and the show must go on. What happened to Carlotta was unfortunate, but we were lucky to find young Christine so miraculo—…"

"Stop it," Nadir hissed, moving towards me. "Your twisted schemes are ruining people's lives. You dare lie to me and sing this ridiculous tune and hope that I'll turn my back? I know where you live! I can bring anyone and everyone here and end this charade before dawn! Kidnapping girls, Erik! Blind girls! Did you rape her as well?"

"I did not touch her," I roared suddenly and he instantly grew silent, though I could see the venom swimming in his eyes. My rage diminished as quickly as it had flared and I suddenly couldn't meet his eyes. "My god, Nadir, do you think so little of me?" My voice shook and I had to turn away once more. "My Christine… I couldn't…" I broke off, unable to continue. He didn't say anything for a moment, and I could all but hear the cogs turning in his mind.

"You love her." I closed my eyes at his words, unsure if it stung or comforted me to hear someone else say it. Still, I could not bear to hear the discomfited pain in his voice.

"Did you come here to pity me?" I retorted, hating the weakness in my own voice. "I don't need pity! God, I hate that word!"

"Erik, you cannot just drag her down here and hope that she'll reciprocate your feelings," he said softly, and I brushed passed him, moving back towards my chair.

"She's not here now is she? Go on, search my rooms. She's in her own room, safe and sound, and probably dreaming of that damn fop…" I grumbled, sinking into my seat sullenly.

"He's not going to stop until he finds you," Nadir murmured with regret. "He's madly in love with the girl and he's convinced you're driving her away from him. He's calling you a depraved—…"

"Yes, yes, I've heard the names. Thank you very much, Daroga, if you'd please leave me to my  _depraved_  insanity."

It came out harsher than I had intended, but I nonetheless heard him slowly move towards the door. His footsteps stopped as he reached the jamb, though I didn't turn to him as he spoke nearly inaudibly.

"The girl…She's blind?" My stillness was enough for an affirmation for him to continue. "You've heard of the surgery, then."

The breath constricted in my throat for a moment, and with a slow breath out I looked back up to him. "Yes."

Nothing more needed to be said, though we remained like this for a moment, our silence speaking more than our words ever could. Finally, unable to continue, I looked at the ground and heard him move out. He wouldn't betray me. At least not yet. Despite this security, I wrenched my mask from my face and let my head fall into my hands. And without missing a beat, I began to cry.

* * *

They hadn't spoken since they were interrupted by Raoul, but Christine could feel his presence everywhere she went that day. From the moment she woke up, she could feel him urging her on assuring her of her imminent success. Without words, he calmed her as she was whisked from the stage to her dressing room, from the green room to the wings, from the wig room to The House. How odd it was to have last minute alterations done by Isabelle and Cecile; her desire to pick up a thread and needle to assist them had never been so pronounced. But it was excitement, not resentment, that was buzzing through the Opera House, and for that she was immensely thankful.

What was even more interesting was that suddenly, everyone felt the need to help her around the theatre; she was constantly linked arms with a ballerina, or perhaps led by a stagehand with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She found this rather amusing, naturally—of course they didn't realize that she had gotten around with little to no help for years—but she allowed them to assist her nonetheless.

And as expected, Meg was within earshot more often than not, ready to make the requests that Christine was to modest to make.

"I know how the Prima Donna is  _supposed_ to be treated," she had said that morning. "I'm just making sure they don't cut any corners for you."

Things had somehow repaired themselves with Meg, in that inexplicable way friendships often do in times of stress. And much to her relief, Meg chose not to mention her Angel or the ghost again after that initial rehearsal, conscious of the fact that it would only upset Christine.

Knowing it would be unwise to broach the subject, though, she had to find another way to escape Meg's watchful gaze, if only for a few minutes. She had no idea what exactly drove her towards this desire to see her Angel—no, she could not call him that anymore—but when her makeup and hair had been finished and she was safely in her costume, she asked for a moment to herself.

"Would you like us to leave?" Meg asked, standing up and preparing to usher Christine's dressers out.

"No, no," Christine assured, standing up and smoothing out the front of her dress. "I'm just going to take a walk."

"Of course."

It was an odd feeling to move through the bustling Opera House on her own in such extravagant attire. Despite the Egyptian style of dress, it was no less than decadent. She may have been unable to see the dress, but her other senses were nevertheless overwhelmed by the intricacy of the dress. To feel the velvet exterior, the long plaits extending from her hips to the ground, the metal rings on her upperarms, the beading that she had begun and someone _else_ had finished…It was unreal. Something out of a dream, truly.

"Ten minutes until places, Mademoiselle Daaé," she heard the Assistant Stage Manager say as he rushed passed her. Her stomach flipped and she moved her fingers delicately to the wall, feeling the concrete brush against the pads of her fingers and scrape ever so slightly under her pristinely manicured nails. She knew these halls, and she knew how to find her way back to that abandoned dressing room.

She could never fathom how he seemed to be in all places at once, for as she entered the room, she could feel his presence. Yes, he was there, bodily, waiting for her. Closing the door behind her, she waited motionlessly for him to say something, but when he did not oblige, she swallowed and fingered one of the soft braids on her costume.

"I wanted to thank you," she remarked softly, staring straight ahead with what she knew were blank eyes.

"Yes," he responded. He was nearer than she thought—only a few feet away in fact, rather than hidden resolutely in a corner.

"We both know the only reason I'm about to go on stage is you."

"Don't give me too much credit, Mademoiselle." She could hear the faint smile on his lips, and she returned it with one of her own.

"But you deserve as much," she insisted, dropping the braid without a second thought. "I was nothing when you found me. And now…"

"And now you are a Prima Donna, Miss Daaé."

"Please, please call me Christine," she urged, her words almost overlapping the end of his sentence.

"Christine…" It was as if he was tasting a word he had long since forgotten, recalling how the mouth formed each sound.

"Will you take my hand?" she requested timidly, holding out her hand into the abyss in front of her eyes. She didn't hear the footsteps as he moved towards her, but she felt his gloved fingers tenderly wrap themselves around hers. "I would like to continue taking lessons with you. I would like to…Come back…" She couldn't recall when she had begun to shake, but she felt her fingers tremble in his.

"And Monsieur de Chagny?"

Her mind raced, only realizing a fraction of the inevitable finality that would reside in her words; she could only see the first steps down the shadowed path that she was about to venture down.

"He did not get me here," she began with a whisper. "He did not believe in me."

It was like something out of body and mind. Her mind couldn't grasp where these decisions were coming from, or how she could possibly push away the safety of Raoul for the danger that stood in front of her.

"No, he did not," was his pleased answer. "But for your obedience…" He paused, rethinking his words for a moment. "For your loyalty, I will allow you to remain companions, if only to ensure that he will make no more trouble for me. As long as you understand the consequences if you should choose to betray—…"

"Yes, yes," she said hastily, though confusion was written clearly on her face. Perhaps something had happened that she was not aware of, for Raoul's friendship was never something he would have allowed before.

"Very well," he said before she could think about it any further, and he brought her hand up to his lips, kissing it with a feather-light touch. "Now, my Prima Donna, it is time for you to make your way back stage before someone comes to find you worriedly." He let go of her hand and released a long breath. "Dazzle them, my song bird."

Tears were welling up in her eyes as she moved back towards the door, though she stopped as she reached for the knob.

"What may I call you?" she enquired slowly, her heart rate accelerating as she did.

"Erik," he said after a pause. "You may call me Erik."

"Erik…" she mouthed, before turning the knob and opening the door. "Thank you, Erik," she said to the room, and exited to the hallway. Now was the moment to forget the blocking, to forget the rehearsals, to forget the sitzprobe; now was the time to bring nearly two thousand patrons of the Palais Garnier to their feet. She moved her hand up to the cement wall, treading towards the stage left entrance with her head held high.

_Steady n—…No. I am steady._


	10. Of Renewals and Recitatives

A triumph couldn't begin to describe opening night of Aida at the Opera Garnier. Every ticket holder and gossip monger entered the theatre expecting utter bedlam on stage with a blind Prima Donna, and by the end they were on their feet in awe. Every woman of fashion wanted to meet the young ingénue who would invariably take Paris by storm. Every gentleman wanted to shake the hand of the brilliant directors and congratulate them on a masterpiece for the ages. Talk of the mysteriously absent Carlotta was easily replaced by astonishment at the newly discovered Christine. If there was outrage, it was but for keeping such a talent from the public for so long. If there was consternation, it was only for what should happen to the young star should Carlotta return.

After her final bow, Christine exited the stage breathlessly and was whisked away by nameless hands. What a relief that there were others to hold her up, for she was sure that if they were to let go, she would collapse to the ground without a second thought. As they entered the dressing room, Christine was immediately pushed into her seat and her dressers proceeded begin the arduous task of dismantling her wig.

_Breathe. Breathe. Please breathe. I will survive another day. There will be tomorrow night. There is always another night. My Lord, did I actually do that? Breathe. Please breathe._

"Was it…" Christine began between panting breaths. "Was I alright?" She heard the sound of ribbons being tugged at, and it was indeed Meg who replied in disbelief as she struggled to untie the ribbons on her pointe shoes.

"Christine, they're still applauding out there!"

And without a doubt, behind the sound of Meg's pointe shoes finally falling to the ground, hair pins dropping with  _clinks_  onto the dressing table, and artificial hair rustling underneath hasty fingers, the faint sound of an a rippling ovation could be heard.

Christine felt her breath hitch as tears began to well up in her eyes and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Christine," Meg cried, grabbing Christine's free hand. "Are you crying?" Christine felt Meg's finger gently wiping away the tear that had begun to trail down her face, no doubt smearing the layers of makeup caked on her cheeks. "Could you give her a moment?" There was a pause, but after a beat the dressers retreated out of the room resolutely.

"I just can't believe… I think I'm dreaming," Christine laughed, throwing her arms around Meg.

"Now, if you could just tell your friend to make me the Prima Ballerina, I would be much obliged. We would make quite the pair," Meg said good-heartedly.

"I'll do what I can, Meg," Christine responded as she released Meg, knowing all too well that her friend, as the ballerina put it, was surely watching as they spoke. "Now please, I don't want to keep you—you have your own success to celebrate!"

"But—…" Meg began, but Christine interrupted her.

"I'll be perfectly fine. Now I'll see you tomorrow night, yes?"

"Of course," Meg replied, kissing Christine daintily on the cheek. "Congratulations, Prima," she whispered, standing back up and exiting the room.

It wasn't until Christine began to feel along her hairline for pins that she realized that her hands were still shaking. Nevertheless, she willed deep breaths to fill her lungs, methodically extracting the pins individually and setting each one down gently. After the fourth pin when she still couldn't eradicate her trembling, she abandoned her efforts and let her head fall into her hands, a unrestrained smile hiding behind her palms.

_Breathe._

It was at this moment when she felt a leather-clad hand rest on her shoulder, causing her to drop her hands and jump suddenly.

"You frightened me," she laughed, astounded at his ability to sneak past even her keen hearing.

"You were magnificent," came Erik's voice, resounding through the room while not loud enough to be heard in the hallway.

Christine's smile widened despite the pain in her jaw from her constant beaming. "And did you see? I didn't fall into the river during the third act! Much to your disappointment, I'm sure."

She wasn't one to joke with him, but she couldn't help the joy that flooded into her words. And indeed, he didn't laugh, but she could feel his smile. Yes, he so seldom smiled that her senses were in tune with the few moments when he did.

"And…Perhaps you won't understand, but… I wasn't in my head. My mind is always laboring overtime as I work and as I sing, constantly correcting and berating myself, but I was just there. Living without thoughts. It was exhilarating, Erik." The name was still foreign to her tongue, but something about it made her smile even more. "It was as if I could finally see."

"You will certainly be the talk of Paris for some time," he told her softly in a tone she was unable to read.

"I must tell you, I was terrified that I would be remembered as the freak show of the Paris Opera House and nothing more, but it seems…" She paused for a moment, her tremulous fingers inching up to touch his. "But in all honesty, as long as I made you proud I couldn't be bothered with what Paris thought."

As he took a breath to answer, though, to door knob turned and little feet pattered in before stopping dead.

_Please say it is Meg. Please, please, please say it is not some other ballerina coming to lead me to the gala. Please, if there is a God…_

Christine's hand slowly fell into her lap, but Erik's did not move from her shoulder; they only gripped a little harder as the rest of his body tensed behind her. The air had thickened and nobody seemed willing to move an inch.

"I…" came the voice of a terrified Meg. "I left my pointe shoes…"

Erik's hand finally slipped off of her shoulder and Christine heard him tread away from her slowly. She listened carefully to the rustle of his clothes as he bent down to pick up the shoes and step towards Meg.

"Mademoiselle Giry." His voice was icy, and Christine heard Meg swallow anxiously. "I presume you understand the consequences of repeating this meeting to anyone?"

"Certainly, monsieur." Never before had Christine heard Meg sound so meek and fragile, and she couldn't help but be taken aback. She wanted to assure Meg that there was no need to worry, but even she wasn't sure if that was an accurate statement.

"You'll be on your way, then," Erik stated simply, dropping the shoes into Meg's hands and stepping out of view before Meg lunged for the doorknob and snuck out into the hallway.

She heard the low sigh emitted by Erik and the lock of the dressing room door.

"I'm so sorry," Christine rushed, standing quickly while her fingers tugging at the braids of her dress in unease.

"You mustn't apologize—it was because of my negligence. I should have waited to congratulate you," Erik responded calmly, though this still did not ease Christine's disquiet.

"She won't say a word," Christine assured, though she wasn't as confident in that statement as she wished to be.

"Don't worry yourself—I'm not concerned. Besides, there are far worse people who could have walked through that door," Erik said, a hint of malevolence coloring his voice. "I should take my leave."

"When will my next lesson be?" Christine quickly asked as she dropped the plait, eager to resume their meetings in spite of only missing a handful of them.

"Not until after Aida closes," Erik replied, his voice having travelled away from her considerably, no doubt moving towards whatever secret mechanism he had entered through.

"Until Aida closes?" Christine exclaimed, turning abruptly towards his voice. "That's not for another month! Please, you can't mean to have me wait for that long!" There was a long pause as Christine willed herself to stare dutifully where she could sense him standing.

"Very well." She could tell through his tone that he was pleased—everyone loves to be needed, after all. "Come to your usual rehearsal space when you've changed out of your costume and received the praise your cast members will invariably inundate you with."

"A lesson tonight?" Christine asked slowly, blinking in confusion. Surely he couldn't mean to risk straining her voice after the stress of opening night.

"Of course not. You will reside with me over the course of Aida. We will resume our daily lessons in my home."

* * *

As soon as the grand drape had obscured the stage, Raoul was rushing out of his box to make his way backstage. He thanked the Gods that he was a patron and able to get backstage without difficulty, but he was sure that he would have fought his way through to see Christine even if he didn't possess this luxury.

After weaving through the Opera Garnier and wrenching open the backstage door, he moved through the narrow passages at something near a jog, bent on congratulating the new Prima Donna. Of course, he found himself stopped numerous times along the way and was forced to engage in polite conversation, if only for a minute. When he finally turned the corner to the hall leading towards her dressing room, he all but ran into another familiar face.

"Meg!" he exclaimed, grabbing his heart in surprise. "I'm so sorry—I didn't see you there!" he apologized quickly, laughing a bit to himself. When he took in the look on her face, his laugh diminished. Her whole body was shaking and she was gripping her pointe shoes to her chest as if her very life depended on it.

"No, that's quite alright," she stuttered, wide eyes staring unblinkingly at him. This was not right… The Meg he had spoken to in the past was rambunctious and wiry, but this Meg was like a stalked mouse.

"Is everything okay, Meg?" he asked slowly, his hands gripping her shoulders lightly. "You look as if you've seen a ghost." At this, her mouth opened slightly and she blinked rapidly, unable to respond. When she averted her eyes, realization hit Raoul and he grasped her a little tighter. "Were you just in Christine's dressing room?" he demanded.

"I didn't say that!" Meg cried defensively, but Raoul was already rushing past her.

Without thinking to knock, Raoul threw open her dressing room door only to find two pairs of shocked eyes staring back at him.

"Monsier de Chagny," came the horrified voice of one of Christine's dressers. "I would recommend you knock next time. You never know what you might walk in on," she warned. If the situation wasn't so deadly serious, Raoul may have just laughed at that.

"I'm so sorry, Madame. Has Christine been here?" Raoul demanded, his heart racing at breakneck speed.

"She just left," replied the other dresser, turning away in dismissal.

Without responding, Raoul disappeared down the hall, leaving the uncaring dressers in his wake. He was lucky that on the next turn he made, he saw Christine's retreating form.

"Christine!" he called out, rushing towards her as relief flooded his veins.

She turned to face Raoul out of courtesy more than anything else. "Raoul!" She was trying to sound composed, but he could hear a hint of apprehension in her voice.

"Where are you going?"

"Lovely to see you, too," she laughed, a somewhat artificial smile brightening her face.

"My apologies," he amended, taking a slow breath. "You were breathtaking tonight. It was truly an honor to see you perform." Although he was rather breathless, he did his best to make each word genuine.

"Thank you," she replied softly, bowing her head in polite modesty.

"Now I really don't mean to pry—…"

"Then don't," Christine interrupted sweetly; somehow those wide white eyes laced with false amiability and hooded resentment unnerved him like they never had before.

"I—… Christine, I will be perfectly candid with you," Raoul managed, furrowing his brow as he tried to delicately form the words in his mind. "Are you going to see him?" He did his best to withhold the word 'again' from the sentence, not wanting to betray Meg.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she countered, blinking a few times in bemusement.

"Yes, you do," Raoul argued, his jaw clenching as he struggled not to lash out.

"Raoul, I don't want to lie to you." The words held a sincerity that her others lacked, causing him to soften significantly.

"Then  _don't_ ," he pressed in a heartbreakingly soft voice. He raised a hand to brush Christine's cheek at which she jumped minutely in response. "You don't have to do this."

She pulled her cheek away from him, her facade mounting once more. "I believe you have some grandiose assumptions about what exactly I'm  _doing_ , but you can put those thoughts aside. I assure you that I am in safe han—…" He watched in pain as she stammered, knowing that she had chosen the wrong words. "Everything's alright, Raoul," she finally said unwaveringly, squaring off her shoulders bravely.

"I may be blind, but I can feel the pity in your face; and I tell you plainly that I don't need your pity."

And with that, he watched as she turned away, brought one hand gracefully to the wall, and walked away. This was not the meek girl he had asked to dinner when he first arrived at the Opera House. She had changed, and it terrified him to think of what caused such a drastic transformation. Had it been the opening of Aida? Or was it because of this mysterious man? It broke his heart to think that he may have driven her back to this spectral character; indeed, it utterly tore him apart knowing that his lack of trust had caused all of this.

But what got to him the most was that her changes were by no means negative. Quite the contrary—she had positively bloomed into a stronger, more confidant young woman. And what could be worse than knowing that your rival had turned the woman you love into an even more beautiful human being? If such a thing were even comprehendible…

Pushing aside the jealousy that was poisoning his thoughts, he wracked his mind for who could possibly help. Poor Meg was petrified out of her mind and was therefore out of the question. Nadir had proven less than effective, unfortunately. That was when a new name came to mind suddenly, and Raoul began to move towards the small offices that resided in the corner of the building. Who was it that had been at the Opera House for the longest? Who consistently had the first news of the goings-on of le fantôme? Who always seemed to stay  _just_  far enough away from the controversy to remain in the shadows, unnoticed?

When he reached the door he was looking for, he knocked rapidly, hoping with all of his heart that she would still be awake and had not yet left. He listened carefully and let out a breath of relief when he heard muffled footsteps on the other side of the wood.

The door cracked open, weary eyes barely visible in the darkness beyond the threshold.

"Monsieur le patron?"

"Madame Giry. I must speak with you."

 


	11. Of Legends and Leitmotifs

It was difficult for Christine to make up her mind as to whether Raoul's concern was heartwarming or irksome. In one moment she would identify his actions as childish and meddlesome, and in another moment she couldn't help but to cherish his deeply seeded devotion. She couldn't wrap her brain around it—she loved Raoul (whether that was platonic or otherwise, she had no idea), but for some inexplicable reason, all she wanted to do was push him away.

Raoul was safe, and a different Christine from an earlier time would have embraced this with all of her heart. But she too had noticed a change in her demeanor and in her thoughts. Her perspectives on the world around her were changing and widening in a rather enigmatic way, while her erstwhile patterns of thought were giving way to new, more complicated ones.

She was thankful that the abandoned dressing room she frequented was not far from her encounter with Raoul, for she had no desire to wallow in her thoughts. When her hand finally came to the cold metal knob, though, she paused for a moment; her hesitation manifested itself in her fingertips, which were gradually circling the knob, forcing her attention to its texture rather than what lay ahead.

_Open it. Grasp it and open it. There is nothing beyond this door that I cannot face._

This brute force of will finally prompted her to turn the knob and open the door, and she made no delay in crossing the threshold into the room rather quickly. She couldn't give herself too much time to think about what she was doing or where she was going. And much to her relief, as soon as she shut the door behind her she heard his voice. It was still odd for her to hear him as a real human being rather than an omnipresent voice or a whisper in her ear, but she did her best to mask her wonder.

"Are you ready?" he asked without preamble, and as soon as she nodded, she felt his hand delicately take hers. With that, she was once again led through some unknown mechanism into a damp tunnel.

How peculiar it was to descend to his home a second time, somehow more aware of everything around her. She wracked her mind, trying with all her might to uncover the memory of her last trek through these passages, but all she could recall was the smell of dirt and the sensation of flying. Perhaps it had all been a dream—perhaps those countless days beneath the ground, mindlessly rehearsing for Aida, had been constructed by her overactive mind. In fact, his ominous silence both unnerved and half convinced her that she was dreaming in that very moment.

"We've reached the lake. Mind your step." The words jolted Chistine out of her reverie and her grip on his hand tightened faintly.

With his help, she took a step into the boat and cautiously let go of his hand. He stepped in behind her, and as they began to move across the lake she recalled with a smile what he had said about the monsters that resided underneath them. No, it couldn't be a dream after all.

It probably hadn't taken an inordinate amount of time to reach the shore, but in her infinite anticipation, it felt like an era before the boat nudged up against the shoreline. She took a sharp intake of breath as she felt his hand on hers, leading her out of the boat and onto a rock. She had no recollection of these events from her prior visit which puzzled her greatly, but before she could mull over the realization, she was being led into the house.

"I would like you to go straight to bed tonight and rest for most of tomorrow," he instructed, his hand still clutching hers as they moved through the house. She nodded deftly, doing her best to keep her head high and shoulders back. Something inside of her desperately wanted to prove her bravery and maturity to Erik and smother any sign of meek behavior before he saw it. "I would hate to have you fall into the trap of a second performance slump, so we will not begin rehearsing until the day after next."

"Rehearsing?" she breathed, cocking her head in question. Surely he didn't mean to have Christine usurp Carlotta's role once again as Prima Donna.

He slowed to a stop and she heard him turn a door knob, presumably leading her to her room. "Yes, rehearsing. There are roles to play after Aida, my dear." It was firm but not condescending, much to her appreciation.

"What are we working on?" she queried, chin high.

There was a long pause and she could feel his ambivalence. "Faust," Erik finally said and she felt him move into the room. She followed slowly, her hands touching the door frame in order to gain more understanding of her surroundings.

" _La damnation de Faust_?" she asked quickly, receiving a low chuckle in response.

"Would I ever make you a mezzo?" Christine cracked a small smile, taking another marginal step into the room. "Not Belioz. Gounod. You'll be performing as Marguerite, of course." It sounded so very simple when he said it, but she knew this was no small task. If the wide vocal range the role called for wasn't enough, the story's heart wrenching arc was enough to spark uneasiness—uneasiness that he could plainly read in her face, evidently.

"There is ample time to prepare. No need to worry, ma mie."

Her trepidation all but vanished at this. "Ma mie?" she said, restraining a giggle behind the back of her hand. "How archaic, Erik." She stifled her laughter quickly, though, in fear offending him in some way.

"I like to call it old-fashioned," he replied with the scantest hint of amusement in his words. "Now, I've brought you to your room. There are spare clothes in the closet, just as there were on your previous visit." There was a short pause here before she heard him move past her towards the door. She heard him stop in the doorway and she turned towards him expectantly. "You know you mustn't be afraid to laugh in this house. I would hate to… Dampen your exuberance."

Taken aback, Christine brought a hand to her heart and smiled brightly. "Of course…Ma mie." And with that he closed the door behind him, leaving her to her thoughts.

Before she could get too wrapped up in her mind, Christine felt her way to the edge of the room, surprised at how quickly she recalled the layout of those four walls, right down to the embossed fleur-de-lis on the wallpaper. She felt her way towards the closet and slowly changed out of her gown into a simple nightdress. Yes, she remembered the feel of this too—far more luxurious than what she was accustomed to.

The anticipation of arriving at Erik's home once more had kept her alert for some time, but when she slipped underneath the blankets in her bed—could she call it  _her_ bed?—she felt exhaustion take over. Her entire body was drained from the performance and her eyelids felt like lead. Yet somehow, she found herself lying awake as her thoughts raced.

Hours ticked by before she found herself in that mystifying trance that occurs between waking and sleeping, where the line between reality and dreams blurs in the most mind-bending way. And so, when she heard the door open almost imperceptibly, she couldn't have said whether it had truly happened or not. And when she felt a gaunt hand trace her hairline with the lightest of touches, she attributed it to a foggy dream.

But when lifeless, thin lips kissed her forehead for a fleeting second—that, she knew was real.

* * *

"Madame Giry. I must speak with you."

"It is quite late, Monsieur. If you'd like to come back tomo—…" she began diplomatically, but he held up an unyielding hand.

"No, I don't want to come back tomorrow. We must speak now." There was a pause and he watched her eyes narrow slightly before finally opening the door just far enough for him to walk in.

"Very well," she replied stoically, closing the door behind him. The room was quite dim, lit only by a few candlesticks littered about the room. As she led him to a small sitting area, she grabbed one of the candlesticks, hoping to provide a bit more light for their conversation. "This is about Christine?" she asked, motioning for him to sit down and following suit shortly after.

"In a way…" Raoul replied, running his thumb along the arm of the chair slowly. "I came to talk to you about the Phantom of the Opera," he said frankly, looking her straight in the eye as he spoke.

She didn't react as he had hoped, and even smiled slightly in response. "There is no such man, Monsieur. It is a nothing but a silly myth."

He should have expected as much. Raoul looked down into his lap for a moment, gathering his thoughts as he contemplated how to continue. Finally, he looked back to Madame Giry with a harsher look in his eyes. "I have come here to talk to you about the man who has seduced Christine."

Yes, this had the desired effect: her eyes widened ever so slightly and her jaw dropped just enough to ensure him that she was listening. She gained her composure just as quickly as she had lost it, though, and clasped her hands together in her lap tightly.

"I think you're mistaken. There is no such man—…" she began once again tactfully, but he cut her off, jumping up from his seat as he did so.

"Stop! She is with him at this very moment. She is being manipulated and brainwashed by this man  _right now_ and you choose to turn a blind eye? Do you have no care for the girl?" he hissed, watching as she stood up as well.

"Christine is like a second daughter to me."

"I hardly think you would allow Meg to have a dalliance with this man, Madame Giry."

Madame Giry pressed her lips together at this and turned her back to him. "I would like you to leave, Raoul."

"Perhaps you would like to pretend otherwise, but my family has an incredible amount of control in this opera now. If Phillipe and I choose not to contribute our money, you will be out of a job, Madame Giry, I can promise you that." How he hated to use his money or his rank to sway people, but it was beginning to look like he had no other leverage.

He watched as her shoulders slumped slowly, either in defeat or acceptance. "Please, Madame Giry. I just want to help." When she didn't turn around, Raoul let out a slow breath. "Why do you allow him to do this to you?"

"You leave me no choice." She made a move to sit back down and he did the same, perched at the edge of his seat. "I'm forever indebted to him, Monsieur," was all she said at first, and when their eyes met he urged her on with enthrallment. "My life was in shambles when he found me. You see, I was much like Meg in my younger years—a featured ballerina on the brink of truly making a name for myself. And then I met my future husband…" She trailed off regretfully, turning away from him to examine the flame of a nearby candle.

"He was the most charming man I'd ever met. And I was young and naïve." Another beat before she turned to him in frankness, the dullness of her eyes betraying the bleak nature of her story. "I ended up pregnant out of wedlock and we married immediately. I knew nothing of his less than reputable habits, though—namely a severe gambling addiction and an affinity for liquor. It became blatantly evident when Meg was born that we could not afford to maintain his lifestyle on such a small income which he fettered away as quickly as he could."

It was at that moment when Raoul saw her dark eyes change, and she no longer seemed aware of his presence. She was lost in another time and place.

"That was when he found me. I couldn't tell you how he knew of my dance background or learned of my circumstances, but somehow he came to me. I remember it clear as day; I had just walked out of Printemps when something stopped me dead in my tracks. It was no person or event, but just a feeling— feeling that told me to go into the Opera House just around the corner."

She was pulled out of her trance as she laughed guardedly. As she did so, it became increasingly evident these were words Giry had never spoken aloud. "I had, of course, never been in the Opera House before that day, and so I continued to walk away. But this feeling was boiling within me, telling me that I had to enter the building if it was the last thing I did. I attributed it to some odd portent or premonition and I tentatively turned back to the Opera House, making my way inside.

"It was midday and the grand entryway was empty. And how astonishing it was to see for the first time!" she recalled, a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips. "And then I heard him. He was calling my name so faintly that I thought it was my imagination. But this voice, like strung gold, wouldn't go away and wouldn't stop willing me to come towards it. How silly I must have looked, bags in hand and wandering blindly through the hallways of a building completely unknown to me. Of course, now I realize that he must have ensured that no one would stop me, but I was wholly bewildered at the time."

Their eyes met again and Madame Giry studied him for a moment, perhaps debating whether or not to continue. Finally she shrugged and sighed brusquely. "Well, I couldn't bore you with the details of the conversation if I tried—I was in a trance. I know no other way to describe the spell he put over me. But when I walked out of the Opera House, I had agreed to become the Premier Maître de ballet of the Palais Garnier. And of course I had no experience as a ballet mistress. Furthermore, I hadn't been en pointe in over a year."

She shook her head, clearly as bewildered by the events as he was. "To this day I still haven't the faintest idea why he thought of me, but I have no doubt that if he hadn't, I would be begging on the streets. Meg has had a blessed life due to him, and there is nothing more in the world I could hope for."

"And your husband?" Raoul pressed, receiving a dismissive wave of her hand from the ballet mistress.

"He did not question the job, and was sent off to fight in the Franco-Prussian war before long. He was killed there, leaving Meg and I contentedly alone. I have been in the service of the Phantom of the Opera ever since."

"But who is he?" Raoul demanded, his frown deepening as he leaned his elbows on his knees.

Giry shook her head, smiling blithely to herself. "That is not a question easily answered, Monsieur de Chagny. He is a man of many masks. He is a magician and an architect; he is a composer and a violinist, an organist, a pianist, a singer; he is a lover of trap doors, and a master of mirrors; he is an utter genius, able to conquer anything he sets his mind to."

"Then why is he here, haunting an opera? Why isn't he out in the world?"

"He is terribly deformed, I'm afraid." Madame Giry looked away once more, a grim expression crossing over her face. "Although most of the rumors about his features are exaggerations or outright lies, his mask is not. And because of this, he has always been an outcast, forced to live on the outskirts of society rather than thrive amongst the other artists of Paris."

What a surprise this was—the man that Giry was describing seemed pitiable at best. He certainly didn't sound like one to be feared, but rather a simple human with a barrage of empty threats.

"And that is all?" Raoul hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed Madame Giry's expression. She stared at him back, her jaw clenching as she did.

"Yes, that is all."

Raoul stood up, feeling rather victorious as he did. So the rumors that he was a murderer by trade were false. There was no danger behind him! Yes, he could rest much easier knowing this fact. What's more, he knew exactly what his next steps were to be—reveal his newfound knowledge about this lover of trap doors and convince her of his disreputable and manipulative nature. Surely Christine would think twice about going back to a man who had clearly hid so much from her.

When he reached the door of the office, though, his attention snapped back to Madame Giry, still sitting stiffly in her chair.

"Knowledge is a very dangerous thing," was the cold warning she delivered.

He paused momentarily, but continued on to grab the doorknob.

"Do not underestimate him, Raoul. Do not presume to know him."

At her crisp words, Raoul turned and found her standing, staring at him severely. He looked back at her for a moment, his brow furrowed bewilderedly, before steadfastly nodding as his only response. He finally took his leave and exited the room, but not before being struck by the almost inaudible murmur that came from Madame Giry as the door clicked shut: "Even I do not know him." A shiver ran through him, but he pushed away any alarm and began to make his way out of the opera.

He would not fear this man, and he would not fear winning Christine back. Nothing was written in stone yet. As a matter of fact, it appeared that they were only at the beginning.


	12. Of Repudiation and Ricercar

It was strange indeed to be led back up to the waking world, as she found herself now calling it. It was as if she had barely reached the house and she was already being led away from it for each night of Aida. Every evening was the same: a long winding pathway up to a place where the air was crisp, and the dank smell of dirt was mysteriously absent. His arm would encircle her waist, his fingertips barely grazing her hip, light as a feather's touch on the bodice of her dress. When light became discernable, she knew he would leave her and she would navigate the familiar halls to the Prima Donna's dressing room.

It seemed an ordinary night, the night Raoul came to her. Attendants came promptly to ready her for the night's performance, pinning in the lavish wig that transformed her into Aida. Corset tightened, makeup painted, cold metal ornaments clasped about her neck and wrists, she stared sedately into space. Her thoughts were lost in Erik when she heard the knock on the door, pulling her from her reverie. She heard a dresser bustle away, followed by fervent whispers that were exchanged as the door creaked open. Turning, she felt the attendants exit the room in a sweep of skirts and a man's footsteps moved nearer her.

"You look beautiful Christine."

"Thank you Raoul, "she breathed.

Silence hung between them like a curtain, each wondering what they could say to broach the subject that loomed over their shoulders.

"Why are you here?" she said finally, her voice holding no trace of animosity.

"Can't a friend come to wish another luck?" She heard the smile in his voice. "Your performances have been astounding," he added, at which she let out a small laugh.

"You've actually been watching? So few patrons come to the opera to see where their money has gone."

His response, while jovial, was nothing short of solemn. "Anything to see you."

She looked away demurely as she knew she should, knowing it was merely a formal gesture—when had she ever needed to look away not to see? She gently placed her arm on the edge of her chair, the gold bangles decorating her wrists clinking softly.

"I really must be going, Raoul. It was lovely to hear from you."

With that, she pushed herself from the confines of her seat, clasping her hands in front of her politely. She hadn't taken a step before he made a move to stop her, his voice unexpectedly fervent.

"I've been to speak with Madame Giry."

"Whatever would you need to speak with her about? Surely the ballet couldn't have been that terrible," she smiled, her best attempt at a joke. She could feel the uneasiness that surrounded him as he kept silent.

"Were you telling her what you _think_  I've been doing these past months?" she asked after a moment, untamable exasperation tingeing her voice.

"What  _have_  you been doing these past months?" he shot back. The aggression in his voice startled her; she had never heard that tone from him before, not with her.

"I don't see why it's any of your business," she replied, this time not bothering to hide her annoyance. She was shaken by his abrupt response.

"He's not the  _man_  you think he is. He is not a man at all."

He sounded prepared to continue, but Christine cut him off. "You're saying this out of jealousy," she responded, astounded at her own calmness. "What sort of man does that make you?"

The beat he took before he spoke revealed just how flustered he was. "You're not listening to me, Christine. He is a fraud; someone who plays at magic. He has been feeding you lies and nothing more."

Her arms flew out as she gestured to the room, her composure slipping ever so slightly as she cried, "Lies?" She reigned in her emotions as her arms fell to her side. "Look at where I am. Look at what I've become." The words were now barely audible as they escaped her lips. "This is my dream, Raoul, and no matter what you say, you could never have gotten me here."

"You know I would have given anything to give you your dreams." The words were spoken in defeat and she felt a pang of guilt.

"Raoul, you are one of my dearest friends. But I cannot stand by while you malign him. He is everything to me."

His next words came slowly, as if he didn't want to say them. "He's not normal." The words were barely out of his mouth when Christine scoffed in response.

"What does normalcy have to do with it?" she demanded.

"He's deformed! There's something wrong with him!" The words tumbled out of his mouth, unable to be contained.

No emotion registered on her face as she took in his words. "There's something wrong with  _me,_ " she said gently. "Does that make me deformed?" Her voice cracked on the last word, revealing the heartbreak within her.

"It isn't the same," he assured her quickly. "You're beautiful, and talented, and…" He paused for a split second and her heart skipped a beat. "And I love you, Christine."

She was silent as he approached her, and just as his hand brushed hers, she pulled away. Her head snapped to face him, her expression stoic. "You're right," she said simply, tranquility returning easily. "He's not a man. He's a phantom. And his power and influence will reach farther than yours ever will, Monsieur de Viscount."

They exchanged no more words as she slowly strode out of the room, leaving Raoul suddenly alone.

* * *

I couldn't keep the proud smile from my lips as I watched her walk away from the boy with stately grace. She had become precisely the woman I intended her to be.

* * *

Late that night, far after Erik presumed her fast asleep, Christine lay awake in her bed and replayed her conversation with Raoul continuously in her head. No matter what she did, she felt the same guilty pain mount as the conversation developed. And no matter how she spun his words, she felt the same malice towards him as he condemned those who were not "normal" by his standard. And those final words… I love you…

But who could think of such things the moment she heard faint music breech her room. It was the organ—she rarely heard him play violin or piano of his own volition, for the sounds were much easier to conceal. To mask the sounds emanating from those great pipes, on the other hand, would be quite a feat.

Despite her state of undress—she only wore a white shift—Christine slipped out of her bed and left t he room without a second thought. Her fingers grazed the walls as she followed the sound of the swelling music, retracing her steps several times when she found herself in dead ends. It wasn't long before she knew that it would be difficult to find her way back on her own, for the house was no less a labyrinth than the passageway down from the Opera House. Thankfully, the hallways were perfectly vacant—no paintings on the walls and no decorative furniture—leaving the way quite clear as she wandered in an almost trance-like state.

Turning a corner, she knew she was drawing near. The music was vibrating through her veins, prompting her to take each even step towards the door. Her entrancement eliminated any hesitation, and she turned the knob delicately and entered the room without a declaration. She expected him to stop brusquely, but he too seemed irretrievably wrapped up in the composition.

Rather than moving closer to him, Christine merely stood still, closing her eyes as the sound pulsed through her. Each melancholy suspension brought about waves of emotion, until without knowing how long she had been standing there, she felt tears begin to fill her eyes. How magnificent it was to feel such pure emotion, and what could be better than to have it be brought about by music.  _His_  music.

The final chord rang through the room at an astounding volume. And then the tremendous silence. Yes, that absence of noise following the conclusion of the piece only conjured more tears in Christine's blank eyes—tears she did not bother to wipe away.

"Christine?"

With that word, it was over and her trance was shattered. Even as she wracked her mind, she couldn't recall ever having left her bed, but somehow she was here! Her hands flew to her face to wipe away the overflowing tears and she turned away quickly.

"I'm so sorry—I didn't even realize…" she began, but she hadn't the faintest clue how to finish the sentence. How could she not have known what she was doing?

"Are those tears?" There was concern in his voice and she heard him stand from the organ bench and move briskly towards her. "What's happened?"

"No, no," Christine assured, waving her hands and shaking her head. "It was just so brilliant. I…"

"Please forgive me for waking you—it was dreadfully thoughtless of me." He saved her from losing her words once again, and she felt a bare hand wipe away a stray tear. The skeletal hand that swept across her cheek stopped her cold as she recalled Raoul's words. Her jerk didn't escape his attention, though, and she listened as he slowly lowered his hand.

"I'm very busy," came his suddenly detached voice as he began to move away, alarming Christine even more.

"Did you…Did you compose that?" she faltered, relieved when she heard him stop.

"Yes."

"It is…Difficult for me to put into words just how astounding I found it," she continued, hopelessly grasping for a response. When she received none, she remained still, barely able to breathe. Her mind was brimming with Raoul's words, and she couldn't help her desire to reveal them to Erik. Floundering over her words was only exacerbating the issue, and after those brief moments, she spoke once more.

"Erik, I must tell you something," she finally declared, the words almost painful to say. There was still no response, but she could feel his eyes on her expectantly. "Raoul," she began slowly, as if the words were being extracted agonizingly from her mouth. "Raoul came to speak with me."

"Did he?" She could not read the emotion behind the words, a skill she was usually so proud of. "And what did he say?" he pressed, and she could not tell whether it was in condescension or genuine interest. Or perhaps neither.

"He… He told me something about you. He told me that you were deformed." She tried to keep the words strong as they escaped her mouth, but she couldn't hide the ache behind them. When she still received no response, Christine took another shaky breath and continued. "And I wanted to tell you that… That if he tells the truth… I don't care."

For once she heard the breath escape his lips as he moved a few steps closer to her. "That warms my heart, my dear. And that's an accomplishment."

Of course he would try to make her smile—even she knew he couldn't bear to see her cry. She obliged and let out a tentative laugh. "You're so accomplished; you astound me day after day. It seems silly that such achievements should be shadowed by something so trivial."

There was no response, but the air had lost a bit of its thickness. "So it's true, then," Christine said after a moment, the words escaping her mouth with more ease.

"It is," he responded deliberately.

"Can it be fixed?" she asked, cocking her head to the side slightly as she frowned.

"I'm sorry?" came his perplexed voice.

"There was just something Raoul said…" Christine began, feeling her cheeks heat up as she blushed. "He said that you played at magic. I thought maybe you could repair it if you were a magician…" It sounded so childish when she said it aloud, but she held her ground.

"No." The words weren't angry, always a great relief to her. In that moment as she let her guard down, she felt a long-wondered question develop in her mind.

"Can you fix  _me_?" The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"…No." It was the same answer, but somehow it seemed different to her ears—more guarded perhaps.

She didn't have long to contemplate his response, though, because he quickly began to speak once more. "You must be tired. I'll show you back to your room." He took the final steps towards her and a now gloved hand brushed her back, directing her to the door. "My apologies, once again, for disturbing you."

And so began the silent journey back to her room where she would sleep alone in silence whilst echoes of his music surged through her mind.

 


	13. Of Perjury and Polyphony

Raoul was mysteriously absent from her for the subsequent weeks of Aida's run.

Perhaps it was because Erik had begun rehearsing for Faust, and her presence in his home became more and more of a necessity. In fact, there were days when she barely reached her dressing room in time to adequately prepare for Aida, resulting in some very discontented attendants. After Christine's ardent and sincere apologies, thankfully, their impatience faded and all was forgiven.

Or perhaps it was because he was avoiding her. She couldn't be particularly sure if Raoul was making a point to stay out of contact with her; all she knew was that she, more often than not, was trying to stay out of his path. And apparently it was working.

These were perfectly adequate explanations, but in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if Erik had anything to do with their sudden lack of interaction. She certainly wouldn't accuse her teacher of committing any felonious acts, but he  _was_  the Phantom of the Opera, after all. But before she could ever become too contemplative about the matter, she would force her mind in a different direction of thought, unwilling to delve into the subject. She was fortunate that she now had tasks the occupy her time throughout the day, for it wasn't long ago when she was beading for hours on end, stuck inside her own head.

How much easier things were when one's mind didn't have a chance to wander for weeks without respite.

But Faust was not a break by any means. She had never rehearsed for such long periods of time, nor had she been under such meticulous scrutiny. Nothing was good enough for Erik, and when she did improve, he increased his expectations ten-fold.

"You cannot settle!" he would insist. "The opera goers will expect you to be even better, and you mustn't disappoint."

This was the mantra she was deluged with daily. The words changed day by day, but the meaning never did. And what made it hardest was that she had been left in the dark when it came to the story arc. Meanwhile , Erik chose to skip around the opera to his delight, leaving her quite confused from piece to piece. For all she knew, the story consisted of a deal with the devil, a few pieces of jewelry, a cavatina, and a spinning wheel, in some indefinite order.

She had hoped that her knowledge of Marlowe's take on the tale would suffice, for she was all too familiar with that. Her father used to tell her the story of the magic wielding Dr. Faustus, whose Icarian fall taught her piety in her young years. But it became abundantly clear that this account was quite different; in fact, save for the title character and the ever-evil Méphistophélès, the stories were barely echoes of each other.

And so she remained unwillingly in the dark, rehearsing technique alone for several weeks. And she diligently curbed her frustration, always recalling the amount of work they put into Aida and the tremendous outcome. Patience and diligence… That was all it took.

On this particular day, she was rehearsing Marguerite's legendary aria, The Jewel Song. They touched on it every day, incessantly tweaking and molding it into a masterpiece—it had to bring down the house, as Erik would say, just as O Patria Mia did.

"It must sound as if you are a bird, fluttering just above a branch!" he exclaimed over her voice.

" _Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir, est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?"_

Her hand clutched the taut muscles beneath her breasts as she willed her ribs to slowly expand. She could feel her eyebrows knit together as her vibrato fluttered on the top note, but the minute slip she felt did not escape his attention.

"Here, here! It must come from here!" His hand covered hers and pushed in, causing a sudden collapse. Breath rushed out of her mouth and she stopped swiftly with a deep frown.

"If you insist on allowing your support to cave in, then that will be your outcome. Again."

And so she began once more, willing her trachea down as her mouth opened for a deep breath.

"Please, a worthwhile breath or none at all. Soft-palate up, space between the molars."

Christine followed his directions and launched into the song for a third time. She could hear the improved sound she was creating, but when he didn't stop her again until the piece was finished, she grew confused. She hadn't been  _that_  good. And as expected, when she let go of her last note he still didn't speak. In fact, it was hard to tell whether he was even in the room or not.

"What was wrong?" Christine prodded after several seconds, letting out a sigh of discouragement as her ears searched for his movement.

"Technically, very little. But for goodness sake, Christine, it's a joyous aria! If I only saw your expression and heard none of your singing, I would be quite convinced that you were preparing to kill someone."

"I apologize…" The frown on her face deepened and she heard him sigh in response.

"What is it that is troubling you? I know that you have the technique solid when you concentrate, but you appear disconnected at best."

"I just…" she began, her mouth screwing up in thought. "I can't understand how she could possibly be so joyous in this aria and then sing a terribly despondent aria as a spinster, all in the same opera. I can't follow this story line with how you're teaching me; and how can I possibly sing with passion if I haven't a clue  _why_  I'm singing!" she exclaimed, but blushed quickly at her outburst and added a quiet, "…Monsieur" to the end of her sentence.

The silence was utterly deafening. She could even hear the sound of his lips parting ever so slightly, tying her stomach in nervous knots.

"Erik?" she asked, wringing her hands in front of her.

"We will rehearse in order from now on, then," were his stony word. Something in his tone had changed, but she couldn't place what was different. "We'll begin once more with  _Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir_  and move forward from there."

His words had mounted with an energy that she had never heard from him before. "Méphistophélès has left you a box of jewels, which you fawn over in your aria. Unaware that the devil is involved, you assume they are from Faust, and when he comes to woo you, you allow him to kiss you." She heard him swallow and her breath hitched. "The act ends with the seduction of Marguerite."

Christine's lips parted quickly, but Erik had already placed his hand on her stomach again. With this signal, she promptly began, trying to ignore the abrupt dryness of her throat. And how the notes soared—what heights they reached! And yet every note, every portamento held both ease and grace that astounded her.

_You are a bird, fluttering just above a branch…_

Before she knew it, the aria was over. Holding her breath, she waited for the appropriate praise or critique, but was met with something quite different; without missing a beat Erik began to sing what she assumed was the role of Faust. Of course he had sung for her before, but it was generally for teaching purposes. He was not teaching now, though—he too seemed rapt in the words, lost in the story, commanding yet without control.

It scared her and thrilled her all at once.

" _Quoi! Je t'implore en vain! Attends! Lassie ta main so'oublier dans la mienne. Laisse-moi, laisse-moi conempler ton visage, lasse-moi contempler ton visage! Sou la_ _pâle clarté dont l'astre de la nuit, Comme dans un nuage, Caresse, caresse ta beauté!"_

What! I implore you in vain! Wait! Let your hand forget itself in mine. Let me, let me contemplate your face, let me contemplate your face! Under the pale clarity of a star of night , as in a cloud, let me caress your beauty!

Christine stood breathless, entranced by his song, not even flinching as an arm slipped around her waist and a hand brushed her cheek. Her heart raced in her chest as she felt his breath on her—never before had she felt it!—and her own breathing accelerated. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she felt his body pressed against hers as no man's had been before. Surely this couldn't be right…

When his words had ceased, though, she was at a loss. Clearly it was her line, but he had never taught her anything past the Jewel Song. She struggled for words for a few moments until she finally murmured, "I don't know the words…"

Perhaps Christine had tipped her head upwards, or perhaps he had leaned down; in the end, it wasn't important who had initialized it, for their lips touched lightly, as if each were afraid to break the other. She brought a hand up instinctively and didn't recoil when she felt the porcelain mask beneath her fingers.

And then it was over. She might as well have been on fire for how quickly Erik released her. Heavy steps moved away from her—louder than usual, without caution—and their heavy breaths filled the room.

"You're clearly not ready for this." He had never sounded so human to her ears and she started in shock.

"I'm sorry?" she barely whispered, unable to trust in her own voice.

"I thought you were ready for this, but you're clearly not. And besides—it's about time you went back up to the Opera."

Stunned, she didn't speak for a moment and took a futile step forward. "It's barely noon. I usually don't go up for another five or six hours—…" she argued, but he didn't hear.

"We won't have any more lessons for some time. I thought you were ready…" He trailed off and she knew that there was no questioning him. She let her head drop faintly, lost for words.

And as he rushed past her to lead her up the passageway, Christine feigned deafness as well, pretending obediently not to hear him softly say, "I'm not ready…"

* * *

I couldn't say what made me go back seek her out again. It was blatantly clear that she didn't want to see me, but there was an odd feeling that I couldn't shake that pushed me to find her. It was several weeks into the run of Aida, and whether or not I would admit it to anyone, I had seen every performance. What could be more captivating than to watch her become completely enveloped in the music?

The performance wouldn't begin for several more hours and I wasn't sure she would even be in the building. Or if she was in the building, if I could even find her… Several locations seemed probable—her dressing room, the stage, her room, perhaps even The House. But that abandoned dressing room that held my encounters with the phantom… That was the first place I checked.

It would probably seem laughable if someone had been watching, but I stood at the door to that ill-fated room for several minutes. It was probably empty, but my mind kept juggling with what I would do if it wasn't… But right as I convinced myself that there likely wasn't  _anyone_ in the room, I heard the sound of muffled sobbing on the other side of the door.

Perhaps I should have knocked, but my heart had already seized with worry and I threw the door open. And there she was, sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty room with her head in her hands. And she was crying her eyes out.

I thought that she would stop hurriedly at the sound of someone else entering the room, but she seemed not to hear me. Even as I stepped towards her, her demeanor didn't shift. I could have conceivably broken down in tears myself, for I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on how heart-wrenching it is to see someone you love weeping.

When I finally reached her, I bent down on one knee and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. Even then she didn't look up or make any indication that she knew I was there. Blinking worriedly, I placed my spare hand on her other shoulder.

"Christine…" I whispered hoping to capture her attention.

"He's left me," were the words I gathered amongst her gasping sobs.

"Who left you?" I pressed, though the answer was painfully clear to me.

"He told me…" she wept, shaking her head violently. "He told me I'm not…That I'm not ready. That's all he said!"

"Not ready?" I echoed slowly, my heart flooding with grief.

"He told me that I'm not ready… And he left me," she repeated, finally looking up to me. Those tear-filled milky eyes didn't afford me any relief.

"Christine…" I breathed once more, wrapping an arm around her in a tight embrace. She pressed her face into my chest as her sobs swelled.

"And he said I mustn't go back. I'm not ready…"

"Did he," I began, but stopped suddenly, swallowing. The words, so easily formed in my head, could barely escape my lips. "Did he…Disgrace you in any way?" I choked out, my throat tightening.

"He hates me!" she shrieked, either not hearing me or refusing to reply. "I haven't a clue what I could've done wrong, but…"

"Sh…" I interrupted her, stroking her hair softly. I couldn't press her for an answer—not now, at least. "I'm going to bring you back to your room where you can rest. Did you hear me, Christine?"

Christine nodded weakly and I helped her into a standing position before we moved out of the room. It was a godsend that we didn't meet anyone in the hallways, for I knew that neither of us needed a scandal to circulate throughout Paris.

After she was secure in her own bed, I found myself marching on an irrevocable path back to the only person who could help me—t he only person who could stop this tyrant from committing these shameless acts. I knocked on the door without caution, and when I saw those same beady eyes peek from beyond the door, I didn't repress my anger.

"Madame Giry, you are withholding something from me. And to me, withholding information is just as dishonorable as a blatant lie."

She didn't reply, but I watched as her eyes widened just as she opened the door for me to enter. I stormed in, all forms of courtesy I formally kept with her completely gone.

"Monsieur de Chagny, I don't—…" she began, tactful as ever, but I cut her off.

"Don't. What is it you aren't telling me about this man?" I spat, turning sharply to her as she closed the door behind her.

"I've told you what I know," she continued smoothly.

"The man you described would not cause such harm to an innocent girl—…" This time, she stopped me, concern written in her features.

"Caused harm?"

I paused, my fury giving way to regret for a moment. "She won't tell me what precisely has happened, but I believe he has taken advantage of her in the worst way. And only a true monster would ever behave so abominably." My breath caught in my throat, but I watched Giry closely nonetheless. I could see her expression changing as this new information hit her.

"I have heard the rumors, Madame Giry. What is true? What is he?" I challenged.

And just like that, her unease disappeared and her façade had once again taken over. Yes, she had been trained very well.

"He is precisely what I told you. He is a man of many masks. He is a magician and an archit—…"

"Don't spout forth that nonsense to me! Do you not understand that I have the power to turn you out of the Opera Garnier?" I hadn't been so worked up in some time—I so seldom yelled, but somehow I couldn't contain myself any longer.

"Raoul, he holds _infinite_  power. You may think you have the upper hand, but if I revealed—…" She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening.

"So there  _is_ something to reveal," I said slowly, taking a few steps towards her.

"I didn't mean—!" she insisted, shaking her head adamantly.

"Nadir Khan. Have you heard of him?" I said abruptly, watching as she shook her head once more. "He knows this man's whereabouts. He has a deep past with him—deeper than you, even—and at my word, he will not hesitate to pursue him. At which point his 'infinite power' will be rather irrelevant."

Now this was not a complete truth, but I was firm nevertheless. Yes, I had met with Nadir Khan; Yes, Nadir admitted to knowing his whereabouts and of his past with the phantom; and yes, Nadir had connections with the Préfecture de Police which was an additional benefit. But while the de Chagny family had significant influence throughout Paris, Nadir had by no means agreed to pursue this man on a whim. But I knew this was my only chance of defeating this ne'erdowell.

I really couldn't have been more pleased with the result. Her expression softened immediately, though she looked away from me to hide it.

"Raoul, I wish I could help…But to reveal his secrets would be a death sentence to both of us," she murmured dimly

"And if we don't act, we hand a death sentence to Christine and anyone else who crosses his path."

I moved to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Please, Madame Giry, I cannot help her without you." Her head raised and her eyes met mine. "He's killing her, Madame. Perhaps not all at once, but slowly, she's being engulfed in his malevolence. I can see it in her behavior, and I'm afraid of what could happen should she return to him. I'm not sure…" I paused, my hand dropping from her shoulder. "I'm not sure she would ever return."

Her eyes, sparkling with welling tears, watched me for several seconds. Finally, she silently motioned for me to sit down. My heart, already racing, felt like it was bound to beat out of my chest as I sat down across from her.

And just as I had expected, those fateful words left her mouth with a stillness that stopped my heart.

"He is a murderer, Monsieur."


	14. Of Deception and Detaché

The performance that night was dreadful; and while the audience would leave mildly pleased, Christine could feel nothing but dissatisfaction with herself. Each operagoer was meant to leave in a state of captivation, but her performance merely left them…content. What could possibly be worse than mediocrity?

Thankfully there was no performance the following day, giving Christine ample time to gather her senses. She could not possibly allow herself another performance like that. And so, as soon as she awoke the next morning she trekked to the empty dressing room to rehearse her pieces. Something told her to find a new place to practice, but something else told her that this was precisely where she should go—phantom or no phantom, this was her space too.

She went through each aria, each duet, each ensemble piece systematically. Nothing would escape her attention today, and her upcoming performances would be all the better for it. Besides, closing was nearing quickly, which meant rehearsals for Faust would begin. And God only knew what would happen then.

Pushing these thoughts aside, she focused her thoughts to the opera at hand.

_Numi, pietà del mio soffrir! Speme non v'ha pel mio dolor. Amor fatal tremendo amore, spezzami il cor, fammi morir!_

Break my heart or let me die…

Those final words reverberated through the room, and just as she felt emotion begin to well up in her voice, the door opened. Cutting herself off immediately, Christine turned her attention to the entrance of the room, clasping her hands in front of her.

"Christine—I'd hoped you would be here."

She let out a sigh of relief—Raoul. Relentless Raoul, who was forever bent on winning her heart. Compassionate Raoul, who she could never bring herself to push away.

"I apologize for interrupting—you were rehearsing one of your arias?" She could hear the nervous energy emanating from his voice and she smiled.

"Yes." There was silence, save for his short breaths as he prepared to say something, but stopped himself several times. "Is there something you came here for?" she finally prodded, the smile still on her lips.

After another beat, she heard him move briskly towards her and grab her hands securely.

"Christine, I don't know how to say this…And I wish I had some kind of preamble, but I find myself at a loss for eloquent words," he rushed, a strangled laugh finishing off his phrase. "But… I came here to ask you to marry me."

Her smile melted into a frown as she blinked and felt her hands begin to tingle under his tight grip. He was holding his breath, but Christine could find no words to relieve him of his anticipation.

"Raoul, I…" she breathed, wrenching her hands from his grasp. "I can't do that."

She heard his hands drop to his sides and she could almost feel the dire disappointment written in his face.

_Raoul will never love you!_

The words echoed in her mind and she took a sharp breath, swallowing hard.

"I don't understand…" Raoul murmured, but Christine's mind was still elsewhere.

 _Raoul_ can _never love you. He is aristocracy and you are not. His family would forbid even friendship_.

Erik's words seemed so far away, so long ago, but they were ever fresh in her thoughts.

"Christine?" he asked slowly, but she still didn't hear him.

_He will deceive you and he will leave you._

"Christine, are you alright?"

_Society thinks little of angels these days._

She felt his fingers brush her cheek and she was tugged out of her reverie. "Erik would never allow it," she parroted automatically. She didn't correct herself, though—she refused to be embarrassed by her devotion.

"Erik? That's his name?" Raoul echoed, exasperation coloring his words. " _Erik_  left you sobbing in this very room not twenty-four hours ago. Do you not remember?"

Christine said nothing once again, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. "I still must be loyal to him," she finally mumbled, turning her eyes down to the ground.

"Loyal?" Raoul exclaimed, and Christine shuddered at the reverberation of his voice. "Loyal to a murderer?"

Her heart could have stopped at that moment. That was not an accusation one made lightly; it was not a small fancy created to pull her away. One did not simply  _lie_ about things of such enormity.

"Christine…" he murmured once again with regret. "I have discovered some information about his past, and… And he is more a monster than I could've ever imagined."

"I don't understand," she said suddenly, turning away from him quickly to hide her mounting breaths.

"This man— _Erik_ —has killed countless of innocent people to get where he is today—…" he began, but Christine whirled around and interrupted him.

"How could he have possibly done that?" It wasn't spoken in anger, but her words were sharp all the same.

"He hasn't lived in a vacuum here all his life! I know that he is very important to you and that you care for him deeply, but he has a past—…"

"What kind of past?"

He didn't speak for a moment and the silence made her hold her breath.

"He lived in Persia before he came here, where he entertained the Shah and his family. He…" Raoul took another breath before continuing. "He built torture chambers and killed people for their pleasure."

He waited for her reaction, but she made no shriek or cry in response. Instead, she merely forced a smile on her face once again and shook her head. "Raoul, I believe your imagination has gotten away from you." The words sounded lighthearted, but Christine's stomach was churning in horror, her heart pounding incessantly.

"I wish I was making it up, but I am not. Please, you must believe—you must let me help you! If you would only agree to marry me, we could live out the rest of our lives without such a dangerous man haunting us. We would be so happy! It would be like Sweden!"

She opened her mouth to assure him such a thing wasn't possible, but his next words stopped her.

"And your vision, Christine! Surely you've heard of the operation—and I have the money to finance it! You could see again if that's what you wanted! Please…"

She felt herself go cold as she heard these fatal words.

_Steady now…_

"The operation?" she said with painful ignominy.

Yes, somehow that lie that Erik had contrived—that he could not help her, that there was no cure—hit her harder than any speculation of murder. Had he hoped to keep her deformed? Like he was?

"Y-yes, the operation." It was clear that he did not understand the magnitude of those words, but Christine refused to elaborate. Instead, she spoke the word that would set her on a new and shadowed path, ignorant of what could lie at the end.

"Yes." The word was strong, and she squared off her shoulders as she spoke.

"Yes?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, I will marry you."

And with those words, more than ever, she felt as if she was walking straight into the lion's den.

* * *

I can't say I was disappointed when she came to rehearse in the abandoned dressing room. I also can't deny that I desperately hoped she would call out to me as soon as she stepped past the door. She didn't though, and I was instead treated to an independent rehearsal. I couldn't help but smile at the thought—had she ever rehearsed without me before? No, I imagined she hadn't, for I had always been there to correct her and mind the details; yet somehow I wasn't bothered simply watching.

Her determination to invest in each piece astonished me, and I watched in awe as she even sang the duets without a partner. How my throat longed to join in and mingle in harmony with her…

Despite her diligence in rehearsing each piece, I was pleasantly surprised to see that she had chosen  _Ritorna Vincitor!_ to focus on, for she had always held some small resentment towards the piece. Today, however, she held such passion in her singing, such astounding strength and tragedy in each note that when I closed my eyes, I hardly knew it was her.

Break my heart or let me die…

If I believed in signs, I knew that this line was meant to be one. And then, just as I was prepared to make myself known,  _he_  barged in.

"Christine—I'd hoped you would be here."

It took all of my restraint not to reveal myself and strangle him on the spot. I knew it had been a mistake to allow their friendship, if it could even be called that, continue on. I should have hedged my bets…

"I apologize for interrupting—you were rehearsing one of your arias?"

"Yes. Is there something you came here for?"

Polite as always, my dear Christine chose not to acknowledge his nervousness. I narrowed my eyes as he moved towards her and grabbed her hands. How many times had I clasped those same hands? And yet it appeared so juvenile when he did it.

"Christine, I don't know how to say this…And I wish I had some kind of preamble, but I find myself at a loss for eloquent words, but… I came here to ask you to marry me."

If I had a heart, it stopped beating at that moment. Hadn't I once told him that I would ensure that she never loved him? Where had that promise escaped to? I didn't breathe as she pulled her hands away from him in what I hoped was disgust.

"Raoul, I…I can't do that."

I watched her eyes carefully, and I knew that my voice was in her head. I was so agonizingly aware of that expression she adopted when she replayed my words in her mind. Naturally, the boy didn't recognize the signs and searched for her attention in vain.

"Christine? Christine, are you alright?"

He touched her face and she was back in the present, staring at him.

"Erik would never allow it."

I would've been pleased, but I was too caught up in what he would possibly say to such a response.

"Erik? That's his name?  _Erik_  left you sobbing in this very room not twenty-four hours ago. Do you not remember?"

So Raoul had found her… The moment I had brought her up to the opera, I ventured straight back down on my own. I could not have risked seeing her in such a state. I could not risk what I might have done to her. But it was becoming clearer that the cards had not been dealt in my favor. If only someone else had found her there…

"I still must be loyal to him."

That was my girl…

"Loyal?" Loyal to a murderer?"

I couldn't say what I felt in that moment. I'd have to say that in some sick way I was amused. I knew who had told him, and mused with eerie calmness what could have possibly motivated her to give up such information.

That was the problem with confidences: one persuasive viscount can ruin it all.

I didn't listen as he began to make a detailed sketch of my past, or what he knew of it, and my mind somehow wandered to deceptive cadences. I didn't need to hear it all again—I had lived it. I did find myself watching Christine's expression though, as it flirted between disbelief and despondency. What I would do to wipe that look away…

I continued to block out his words, my body and heart numb. There was always the chance that Christine would choose not to believe him, for it was evident that she still held some degree of respect for me. It was when this thought crossed my mind that my hearing perked up once again.

"And your vision, Christine!"

And that was the end… I knew that the lie I had fed her, once illuminated, would push her over the edge. She couldn't bear to be lied to, and I had always known that.

" Surely you've heard of the operation—and I have the money to finance it! You could see again if that's what you wanted! Please…"

"The operation?"

The words, spoken with heart-breaking clarity and hoplessness, took my breath away.

"Y-yes, the operation."

"Yes."

He didn't understand what she meant, but I did—and how I hated him for not understanding!

"Yes?"

One word…One word to erase all of our work.

"Yes, I will marry you."

And even as she accepted the ring, I could see the irrevocable fear written on her face.

* * *

Aida closed without incident, and was marked as the operatic triumph of the 19th century. This was perhaps something of an overstatement, but people liked to talk. With the closing of Aida, though, came rehearsals for Faust, which had been the buzz of the Opera Garnier for some time. Ballerina and stagehand alike, every person had some opinion of how casting would fall. Even Christine herself wasn't sure how things would fan out, having not spoken to Erik for what seemed like an eternity.

While some were surprised, others found it perfectly natural that Christine was cast as Marguerite. Much to her relief, there was little gossip of foul play in her attainment of the role; most believed it was simply hard work and her obvious success in Aida that accounted for it.

Much to everyone's astonishment, though, Christine was pulled out of the opera as soon as rehearsals began. Rumor had it that Raoul de Chagny, whose family had insurmountable influence at the Opera, had deemed her health too uncertain for such a rigorous role. Rumor also had it that she had been moved to the de Chagny residence, where she could recover without the noise and fuss of the Opera House to bother her. The clear assumption was that they had to be engaged for such an arrangement to occur.

And for once, rumor and assumption were both correct.

Rehearsals continued on as usual with no word from Christine, and ironically no word from the elusive Phantom of the Opera. The woman who was scheduled to play the soubrette had been promoted to Prima Donna, and to her pleasant surprise, Meg Giry was promoted to the soubrette role. Meg insisted that she had never spoken a word on stage and wasn't fit to perform in such a role, but the directors dutifully replied, "Neither had Christine Daaé !"

And just as things began to seem back to normal at the Palais Garnier, tragedy struck in the form of the mysterious and unexpected death of the Prima Donna.


	15. Of Endgames and Écossaise

The change of environment had not been easy for Christine for several reasons. Firstly, she had never step foot in his mansion—for that was the only word she knew to adequately describe his sprawling home—and was having difficulty navigating it, despite her superb memory. Secondly, while Raoul was incredibly kind and welcoming, his brother Philippe was far from it. What made things worse was that because Philippe was technically the head of the household, being several years older than Raoul, all of their servants caught onto his attitude and also scorned Christine's presence.

Her days were significantly less fulfilling than those at the Opera House, seeing as she spent most of her hours sitting quietly in her room. When she first arrived, servants would bring her books or needlepoint—apparently what other ladies occupied their time with—but they remained untouched on her bedside table. What was she going to do with a book?

Thankfully Raoul would take her out when he could, and they would walk arm in arm through the park, or down the streets of Paris. The gesture was sweet, but something in her couldn't help but feel a bit like an animal—having to be taken out for walks periodically to keep her from going stir-crazy.

Christine said nothing of it, though, and dutifully played the role of his fiancée. And when he would introduce her to his friends, she would smile politely and endure the rude questions they always had regarding her blindness. She would pretend not to hear Philippe calling her a freak across the house, and would feign ignorance when Raoul claimed that his older brother often forgot how well sound carried through the house.

That was how she learned of the Prima Donna's death, ironically enough. While she sat in her room one morning, she listened to the sound of the servant's voices through a grate in the corner, and what a blessing it was to reside just above the servant's quarters; it kept her mildly entertained, if nothing else.

"You've heard about Annabelle Arcati, no doubt?" came the muffled voice of one of the maids. The familiar name caught Christine's attention immediately and she strained her ears to make out each word.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," was the salty response.

"The new Prima Donna! After the Viscount's little toy was taken out of the opera, they gave the role to Arcati—…"

"You know I don't give a damn about the Opera. Leave that to the snobby nosed and high-strung, eh?"

"That's not the interesting part, see? She was found on Tuesday morning, dead as a fish! And she was murdered, no less!"

Christine stood up quickly, rushing to the grate. She leaned down and pressed her ear against the metal, ignoring the shiver that passed through her body from the cold plate.

"Who did it?"

"No one knows! But listen to this—she was found hanging from the catwalks from a red lasso. They say the directors walked in and saw her hanging there when they were opening the theatre, as if it were a show or something!"

"How very macabre! So what're they going to do?"

"I heard they might make some ballet rat the Prima—can you even believe it? I would be more qualified!"

"Oh, I'm sure. But who says it was murder? Who says she didn't just off herself?"

"Don't' be ridiculous—what kind of girl would kill herself after getting the role of Prima Donna at the Opera Garnier!"

Christine pushed herself off the ground, suddenly finding it immensely difficult to breathe. She took in several gasping breaths, clutching at her chest as she willed herself to calm down.

As if on cue, there was a soft knock on her door followed by Raoul's voice calling out her name.

"Come in," she choked, swallowing with difficulty in hopes of appearing mildly composed.

"Christine!" he exclaimed as soon as he entered the room, clearly aware of her heightened state. "What ever is the matter?"

"Annabelle! She's dead!" Christine cried, her hand flying to her mouth to stop a sob from escaping her lips.

"You've heard…" Raoul murmured after a moment, rushing towards her and embracing her tightly.

"You knew? And you didn't tell me?" she exclaimed in horror, wrenching herself away. "And Meg! What if he hurts Meg!"

"He? Now, you're making a vast assumption when you presume that this was Erik's doing."

"Don't be stupid," she spat, shaking her head. "It was him. Raoul, I must see Meg! I must warn her!"

"There's nothing to warn about, Christine. Please, be sensible about this," Raoul reassured, trying once again to wrap his arms around her.

She escaped his grasps again, though, and took a deep breath. "I cannot stay in this house knowing that my best friend is in danger. Please!"

He was silent for several moments. "You know I cannot deny you anything," he finally said with a sigh. "The managers are having a ball this weekend. They're hoping some extravagant event will make the...Tragedy…Appear less scandalous." She heard his hair swish as he shook his head in what she hoped was disapproval. "They're spending a veritable fortune on the event so that the ticket sales for Faust won't be affected."

"We'll go, then?" she asked slowly, her heart finally beginning to slow down.

"If that's what you want," was his reluctant reply, and Christine let out a breath of relief.

"Thank you."

* * *

Raoul hadn't told her it was a masquerade ball until a few hours before it was to begin. She had a sneaking suspicious that this was precisely the reason he had allowed her to attend—she only had to make her identity known to those he prescribed. To maintain her shrouded identity, he instructed her maids to pin back her hair, obscuring the curls that distinguished her from her colleagues. He provided a mask as well, presumably matching the dress he had bought her the day before.

As they rode in his carriage en route to the theatre, Christine sat quietly in her bulky crinoline cage, fingering the mask in her lap. No one had bothered to describe her dress or mask to her, and so she was left to imagine what she must look like. Raoul instructed her they were meant to be the king and queen of a chessboard, which she assumed was his last minute solution to creating characters for two cream-colored ensembles.

The mask was ornate and deftly sculpted to flatter the face. She could feel the glittered paint that marked the eyebrows, and the small beads extending from the eyes, creating intricate patterns down the sides of the mask. He had bought masks with ribbons, perhaps so that it would be attached to her face, making it more difficult to reveal her identity.

He claimed that this precaution was only to minimize the scandal, but she knew it was his last ditch effort to keep her away from any conniving phantoms that should be lurking about the ballroom.

It was a welcome change to hear the ecstatic chatter of the other guests when they entered the hall. She had been cooped up for far too long with mere gossip to keep her company, and the familiar voices of the dancers and opera goers alike made her heart soar.

Raoul insisted on dancing with her for every number, assuring her that if he saw Meg, he would inform Christine. It didn't stop her from asking periodically, reminding him that she only came to speak with her friend. He seemed to be far too caught up in the atmosphere to hear her, though.

It had been upwards of an hour before Raoul finally left her side to fetch two flutes of champagne. He instructed Christine to remain near one of the far walls of the ballroom and told her that he would be back shortly. She stood still, obedient as ever, vaguely curious as to whether anyone would approach her, or if anyone had recognized her. As if reading her mind, she felt someone walking in her direction, stopping deliberately before her.

"May I have this dance?" The voice was unfamiliar, but somehow she didn't hesitate to lift her hand and allow him to take it temperately.

Before she knew what was happening, she was twirling about the dance floor with a stranger amongst the many other couples, while Raoul remained pleasantly far from her mind.

"May I ask your name, Monsieur?" she said, her voice significantly louder than usual to cut above the buzz of the group.

"What are you meant to be?" he responded, but she was only taken aback by his avoidance for a moment.

"A queen. Like in chess," she replied automatically, unable to help the smile on her face. He had such a pleasant voice, lower than most men's and with an inexplicable lull. "My fian—…" she began, but stopped immediately, swallowing. " _I_ couldn't think of anything else to do with a white dress."

He chuckled in response, and she could feel some sly remark on the tip of his tongue that he chose not to voice. "Chess? Do you play?"

"Never have," she mused, unable to quell the hint of dizziness that was creeping into her senses as they waltzed. "I'm blind, you see, and so I can't play. Or if I did, someone would have to be patient enough to remind me of where all the pieces were, and that wouldn't be enjoyable for anyone," she joked, but he didn't laugh.

"I've always loved chess. It's a beautiful game." The song ended and for a moment they stopped, clapping obligatorily before another piece began and they were once more on the move. "In chess, there are all of these curious words to notate various moves and stages of play," he continued, to which Christine simply furrowed her brow. "My favorite is the endgame."

"Endgame?" she echoed without thought.

"It's the point of the game where neither side has won, but the outcome is decided." Without her knowing it, her mouth had run dry and her pulse had accelerated. "Both competitors are in play, but one is simply going through the motions of the final moves, awaiting his demise. It's the ultimate inevitably. Very poetic."

Christine tried to take a deep breath to steady herself, but her corset restricted this and she was left taking short quick breaths.

"Beautiful ring you have there. Who's it from?"

She had forgotten about the ring that hung on a chain around her neck, and responded after a gulp. "I really must be going," she stammered, trying to pull herself from his grasp while he held on tightly.

"Now, where could you possibly want to go?" he queried simply. She felt his gloved hands against her, clasped with an iron grip that made her gasp. "You never answered me," he continued pleasantly, in stark opposition to his hold on her.

"It's from my f-father," she said quickly, her mind racing with what she could possibly do to escape this.

"Your father? He must be quite rich to afford such an exquisite jewel." His voice was changing into one she recognized too well, and it was making her sick. "But your father was a musician, was he not? Unless he was Verdi himself, I do not think he could afford such extravagance."

His voice was moving away from the space around her, now only resonating in a whisper near her ear.

"Verdi …He wrote Aida, did he not? Now, you must have had an extraordinary teacher to prepare you for such an enormous role as Prima…"

"Stop it Erik, let me go," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes as her breath shook.

"Not today…" he murmured, the chill in his voice sending shivers up his spine.

At this moment, he stopped their dance and encircled her waist tightly with one arm. Her first instinct was to break free, but his grip held her in place.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he boomed, and she listened as the thunderous talk diminished to silence as Erik's magnified voice reverberated through the hall. "Forgive me for interrupting the festivities, but we have a few things to discuss!" Several murmurs could be heard, but they stopped immediately as he continued on.

"Perhaps you have all forgotten me in the wake of the new Opera, but I do not like to be ignored. For those who may not know me, I am the ever distinguished and highly acclaimed fantôme de l'opéra—ah, yes, that is a name you know. I'll admit my reputation does precede me."

When Christine heard heavy footsteps rushing towards them, she didn't know whether to struggle to escape or press herself tighter to Erik. It was Raoul who called out her name as she heard him pushing people aside.

"Ah, Monsieur de Chagny, I would not take a step further seeing as I hold something so very precious to us both. We wouldn't want any more accidents around this opera."

Another wave of whispers made Erik chuckle before turning to her, speaking lowly in her ear. "Yes, Christine, take off your mask. No reason to hide that beautiful face."

She lifted her shaking hands to the mask and pulled the ribbons before delicately removing it from her features. More whispers. More gaping stares—yes, she didn't need to see them for she could  _feel_  them boring into her.

"Now I'm sure you've heard of the unfortunate accident concerning the new Prima Donna—you wouldn't be here tonight trying to patch it up if you hadn't," Erik laughed, the serenity in his voice chilling her to the bone. "Since we have no one to miraculously replace her for the role of Marguerite…" His hold on her tightened as he said this, ensuring that she didn't miss the stab. "I have decided that we will change the opera to fill our next slot of the season!

"Don Juan Triumphant! Don't worry your little heads, you haven't heard of it—it is of my own creation, over twenty years in the making. And my lovely student, Christine, will be my Prima Donna."

There was an explosion of utterances, and the dull roar made Christine wince. Why wasn't anyone acting? The bane of their existence was standing, flesh and blood, before them…Yet they did nothing! And somehow, she still couldn't shake the comfort she found in knowing she would not go back to Raoul's home…

"For those of you who actually come to the opera to  _watch_ ," he roared over their voices, and they went silent. "Don Juan Triumphant tells the story of the seduction of a young maiden…Something you Frenchmen should know plenty about," he commented wryly.

His hand loosened slightly and she didn't know how to react; that is, until she felt a finger gently touch her necklace, causing her to take a sharp intake of air.

"Be careful when you're playing with fire, ma mie," he muttered to her, and even as she opened her mouth to speak, she couldn't force words from her throat. "Let the endgame begin."

And all at once, he was no longer holding her. She reached in a sort of desperation in front of her, but he was nowhere to be found…He had disappeared.

All at once, people rushed towards her as if they feared she would faint, grabbing at her shoulders and her back. Raoul pushed his way through, though, and held her close. She was flooded with a sense of relief as people finally began to move away, even though she knew it was only to gossip and collude.

Raoul pulled her to the side of the ballroom, all the while whispering things that she did not hear. Her head was flooded with Erik's voice, and she simply could not get him out of her mind. Right when he began ensuring that she would not leave the confines of his house and would be safe, she tore the necklace from her neck and placed it in his hand.

"What are you doing?" he demanded incredulously.

"I can't keep that," she blurted out, but closed her eyes for a moment in hopes of gathering her thoughts. "I cannot wear it whilst the opera rehearses."

"But you will not attend those rehearsals—you can't possibly suggest jeopardizing your safety like that! You know he will be everywhere!"

"I must. I can't risk him hurting anyone else on my behalf. Please understand that I have no other choice, Raoul." She forced a sense of finality into her voice, hoping that it would prompt him to agree.

He placed his hand on her cheek and she felt the regret pulsating from his touch. "You know I love you," he murmured almost inaudibly.

Christine closed her eyes once again, knowing what she was meant to say in return. All she could manage, though, was a soft, "I know."

They left the ball almost immediately, and Christine unwillingly travelled back to his house. Against his pleas, she maintained that she would live in the Opera House once again, and that she was only returning presently in order to gather her things. She could not risk Erik's wrath, and what's more, she could not live another day in the de Chagny mansion. Naturally, she kept the latter bit from him, and he once again conceded, leaving them in tense silence for the remainder of the journey.

But no matter what she tricks her mind played as they ambled along in the carriage, she could not get that one word to escape her thoughts:

 _Endgame_.


	16. Of Principles and Passacaglia

When the opera was instructed to begin rehearsing for Don Juan Triumphant on Monday morning, Christine assumed that she would meet with Erik to rehearse her aria. But when she went into the dressing rooms at their usual time on Sunday, he never came, leaving her to fend quite for herself for the rehearsal the following day. Alarm ate at her all night, for she had never gone into an opera without extensive rehearsals, and she couldn't help but doubt her skills. And when it came down to it, they were Erik's skills that he had simply imparted upon her, and without him, she feared that she would disappoint everybody.

Monday finally approached and Christine marched to the rehearsal hall, feigning confidence the entire way—pretending that she actually knew what would happen when she entered the door.

Afterall, it had only been a few days since the gala, but she was already hearing the gossip travel around the Opera House. People were calling her a light woman, claiming that she had slept with both Raoul and this mysterious phantom who was her "teacher." People claimed that she was pregnant, but quibbled over who had fathered the child. Some insisted that she herself had killed Annabelle in pure jealousy and had threatened the managers into secrecy. The list had no end, particularly now that they had no doubt of her affiliations with the legend that was The Phantom of the Opera.

Nevertheless, she forced her skin to thicken, tried to block out each and every whisper, and pretended that she didn't hear people move away as she sat down for rehearsal.

Their rehearsal was conducted with cold precision, and even the most jovial of singers refrained from cracking jokes. The tension that filled the air was stifling, and her confidence slipped once again with each breath she took. It was as if every person in the room wished her gone, and the oppressive emptiness that it sparked was something she had never felt before.

They had rehearsed for just over an hour when the door flew open and the singing stopped immediately. Christine heard the rapid sound of heads turning, but she didn't follow suit.

"Just in time!"

It was not a voice she had heard for some time—Carlotta Guidicelli, with her thick Italian accent and her condescending lilt had entered the rehearsal hall in all of her grandeur.

"Don't mind me—are we at The Jewel Song yet?" The sound of bustling skirts could be heard as Carlotta shuffled into the room and seated herself in the front with an indelicate plop.

No one said anything for several moments; no one wanted to be the one to tell her that not only was she not cast in Faust, but the opera wasn't even going up anymore. And when no one could muster up the courage, Christine finally turned her head towards Carlotta and put on a brave face.

"Faust is no longer opening. There was an accident."

The tension mounted as she spoke what no one else could bear to mention.

"An accident? But  _I_  am here—what else could you need?" she hissed with a harsh bite, and Christine swallowed with difficulty.

"Someone died," she murmured, lowering her eyes in respect. "And the Phantom of the Opera has given us a new opera to perform." She couldn't recall the last time she had referred to Erik in his spectral form, and the words felt foreign on her tongue.

" _Us_?" Carlotta demanded, standing back up with fury. "You're that little seamstress, aren't you? You shouldn't even be here, you little brat!"

Someone behind her spoke up in defense, and Christine let out a breath of relief. "Christine stepped in as Aida when you had your accident," the man said simply, and she heard as Carlotta moved towards her menacingly.

"Ah, so you're the tramp!" she spat, but Christine held her ground. "And am I correct in assuming you have snatched the role of Prima Donna in this opera as well?" She laughed, turning to the rest of the silent cast members. "Well, I suppose when you sleep with anyone who comes your way, you run the chance of taking a few steps up the social ladder!"

This was the wrong response, apparently; the words had barely escaped her lips when the rehearsal piano began playing furiously of its own accord and the sound of a violin reverberated throughout the room. Without missing a beat, her fellow singers dutifully began the prelude to her aria, with tritones, dissonance, and suspensions littering each phrase. And with obedience, she began her bone-chilling aria with honeyed elegance, trying not to think of how Erik was in the walls, watching her.

" _Desolation dreamed of, though not accomplished, set my heart to rocking like a boat in a swell. To every face I met, I said farewell._

" _I said farewell. Nevertheless, whom have I quitted?–which of my possessions do I propose to leave?  
Not one. This feigning to be asleep when wide awake is all the loneliness I shall ever achieve."_

* * *

Due to the vocal strain the opera caused, the rehearsal finished shortly after lunch. It was more than enough information to take in, though, even for Christine who was used to Erik's lengthy lessons and rehearsals. Her mind was brimming with his music as she prepared to exit the room, until his voice cut through it all in a whisper: Come to the dressing room.

She knew better than to deny the request, and she silently made her way to the room without a word to the rest of the cast. As soon as she had closed the door, she could feel his presence near the opposite wall and she awaited his instruction.

"It's time to rehearse," he said simply, and Christine let out a small sound of protest.

"But we just rehearsed for several hours with the music director!" she objected with a frown.

"And can you sing the entirety of the opera to perfection at this moment?" he countered, a response she should have anticipated.

"No," Christine stuttered after a moment, lowering her head.

"Then we must practice." She didn't hear him raise a violin or a bow, but the sound of the strings met her ears immediately, prompting her to begin. Her voice was tired, but she tried to fight through the fatigue and sing through the tension in her throat.

Singing for him held a different sentiment, though—she still had the insatiable need to meet his standards and she desperately wanted to please him, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he hated her. After all, her previous interactions had consisted of him lying to her, sending her away, seemingly ignoring her, and finally threatening her into performing. And yet, she could not force herself to hate him back, no matter what she did.

"You're straining your voice," he finally interrupted her and she stopped quickly, swallowing to relieve the soreness plaguing her throat. "You know better than to sing incorrectly simply to create the sound you think I want to hear. You eliminated that habit so long ago—why do you let it creep back now?" It was odd, for he was behaving as if nothing had happened since they rehearsed for Aida—no ball, no kiss, no abandonment. No engagement.

"I don't know…" she said almost inaudibly, though she knew that this was nothing but a lie.

"Yes, you do know. This is a conscious decision you are making, and I'd like to know what's so important that you risk permanently damaging your voice?" he pressed firmly.

"Because I want to make you happy!" she cried out abruptly, ashamed of the weakness in her own voice. "I just want to please you because I'm so worried that you hate me, and nothing I do seems to help!" When he didn't respond for several seconds, she covered her face in embarrassment at the outburst, fighting the urge to leave the room altogether.

"Why would I hate you?" The words were softer, tinged with an uncharacteristic mixture of regret and grief, causing Christine to drop her hands.

"You told me not to come back!" she insisted in misery as she recalled that night which she had tried to quell for so long. "And I thought that maybe you cared for me, but you never came back! And I didn't know what to do, and then that ball—I was half convinced that you would kill me too!" Never had she spoken so honestly, and anxiety flooded her veins as she waited for his response to her flood of emotion.

"I could never dream of harming you," he murmured, and she felt him drawing nearer to her. "I should never have involved you in my wretched life… I never knew the damage I would do—…"

And for the first time in her recollection, she interrupted him. "With your lies?" An unexpected hint of malice had crept in and it caught her off guard. "You lied to me about the surgery! Did you want to keep me a cripple forever?" She didn't know where she found the latent conviction to say these words, but they were somehow spilling out of her mouth without repression.

"You're not crippled," he countered, his voice rising as well. "I was just afraid—…"

"That you wouldn't have control over me anymore? I'm not a baby, Erik! But you insist on treating me like a child by hiding things from me, and you know how I hate when people feed me lies!" Her words shook and she took several unsteady breaths. "I know about the murders, Erik. I know about your past, and yet I'm still here. Does that shed no light on how I've grown?"

Perhaps part of her expected him to deny the claim and hoped that he would put her worries to rest, but he did not. "You don't know about the murders." The morbid laugh that accompanied the words made her skin crawl, but she stood her ground. "You know a minute portion of who I used to be. That does not mean a thing."

"Then tell me!" she exclaimed with exasperation. "Tell me the  _truth_ —no theatrics, no talk of endgame, no tricks—and trust that I will not run away."

"You want honesty? Fine," he said sharply after a short pause, and she heard him dragging a chair towards her. "You should sit."

"I will stand, thank you," she replied with equal frankness, hoping dearly that if she feigned valor, she could eventually find it.

"As you wish." She could sense the indefinable reluctance coming from his voice, but it wasn't long before he began. "When I was barely older than you, I travelled to the middle East—Persia, to be precise. And because of my ingenuity and resourcefulness, I found myself in service of Persian royalty—the Shah, his wife, their sisters and brothers, mothers and children alike. The khanum—the Shah's sister—was different from the rest of the royal family, though."

He stopped here for a moment, and when he began once again he started pacing across the room. "While her fellow family members were plenty entertained with magic tricks and illusions, she had far more…Sinister taste," he said bitterly, as if the words poisoned his mouth. "I developed torture chambers for her and her friends."

The words were spoken with an indifference that made Christine's heart skip a beat. "Torture chambers?" she choked, reaching for the chair that he had offered before and sinking into it. "What kind of torture chambers?"

"What kind?" he asked with dumbfounded laughter as he stopped pacing. "Anything you could imagine. Anything  _I_ could imagine. They ideas were endless. There was the oubliette, where I constructed platforms hundreds of feet in the air. She and her companions would place bets on how long it would take for their prisoners to jump to their deaths."

He continued pacing as the sepulchral quiet lingered in the room. "There were mirror chambers, creating illusions of endless forests and sweltering heat. They would hang themselves in a less than two hours." He stopped moving as he said this, and as he continued she felt him standing behind her. "I built intricate mazes where a prisoner and a hungry lion would roam, and the khanum would watch gleefully when they finally met and her victim was devoured."

"Did anyone ever escape death?" she murmured, eyes dead ahead and staring.

"No," he stated plainly, crossing in front of her. "Do you want to flee from me now that I've spoken to you with complete candor?"

Christine's mind raced, but she finally replied with resolution. "No." She paused for a moment, pushing herself up from her chair. "I don't think that's who you are anymore."

"You live your life as a fairy tale, Christine—nothing but ranting optimism," he said dismissively with chilled cynicism, moving away from her once more.

"No! There's so much more to you, and I don't believe you are defined by those acts. I can't bear to believe that you are a murderer at your core."

"Is that right?" he said slowly in a tone she was unable to read.

"At your core you are… A musician and a teacher, and much more I'm sure! But not a murderer," she insisted ardently.

"Something from Persia is still left with me. It has not disappeared from memory," he said callously, making it blatantly clear that he was trying desperately to convince her of his iniquity. "After all, how else could you account for Arcati?"

"I can't! I can't, Erik, but I know there's good in you and you are childish to pretend that you are all evil!" she cried abrasively, blindly moving towards him.

" _I_ am childish!" Erik laughed cruelly, and Christine jumped on his words immediately.

"If you say that my finding the good in people is juvenile, then I say the same about you finding the wickedness in them." He didn't respond, and she took it as her cue that she had made some ground. "I do not believe in absolutes. There is bad in me just as there is good in you," she said with verdant hope. "You found me, remember?"

"I saw something I wanted to exploit," he replied, his voice colored with a dull aversion that sparked Christine once more.

"Or you saw someone you wanted to nurture and teach! My God, Erik, there is so much decent and respectable in you and in the world; if only you would let me show you!"

He was silent, but even she had no idea what she hoped he would say. "I wish that was possible," was his quiet response, and before she could counter him, he went on. "Take the rest of the day to relax, and we will continue tomorrow."

He wanted to say something else—she could feel it, and she didn't move in hopes that he would divulge his thoughts. She was prepared for anything that he had to throw at her, whether it was to notice that her ring was gone, or accuse of her of deception when she left with Raoul, or to leave her with another chilling threat. When he didn't say a word, she moved towards the door slowly, her mind racing with all that had been said and all that had been remained tacit. And just as she reached to open the door, the enforced silence broke as his voice met her ear: "Thank you, Christine."

 


	17. Of Ardor and Arabesque

The following weeks continued in the same vein—Christine would rehearse in the mornings, though Carlotta remained oddly silent between pieces, much to Christine's relief. She heard rumors that the managers had coerced her into accepting the small role as a featured ensemble member for her own safety. Regardless, Christine would take a short break, and then retreat to the dressing room where Erik would work with her individually, crafting and perfecting each note to his pleasure.

Their behavior was static. It was as if they lived in a vacuum, where nothing had changed or moved on since their rehearsals for Aida. Thankfully, he somehow managed to quell the tension that she assumed would poison their lessons, and they continued on in peaceful unreality. While this seemed rather unusual to Christine, she accepted it without question.

Her interactions with Raoul were equally curious. He met with her often at the opera to make polite banter, and would take her out to eat every so often in hopes of convincing her to take back the ring. She blocked out his voice in conversation, though, and only made civil nods every so often to convince him that he held her attention. Her mind, instead, was filled with Erik's music, swelling and diminishing even in her sleep; and when his music wasn't there, it was his voice as she replayed their conversations and recalled his touch.

It was becoming clear to Christine that even Raoul could never stand a chance when it was Erik who inundated her mind at all hours of the day.

The wasted weeks the opera spent on Faust were debilitating to Don Juan Triumphant, for time was of the essence; after only a few short weeks of rehearsals, opening night was upon them for better or for worse. All of Paris was on a razor's edge, for they had all heard whispers of the cancellation of Faust and the new opera that would replace it. Some didn't believe and some did, but the city was both terrified and morbidly fascinated as they anxiously awaited opening night.

Christine was oddly calm when opening night finally came. She expected to be wild with nervousness, queasy at the thought of what Erik had planned—for she had no doubt that he still had a trick up his sleeve. But while her attendants dressed her methodically, she felt an eerie and stoic calmness throughout her mind and body.

Her costume was far from the likes of Aida. There was no statuesque elegance in her coquettish garb and no modesty in the lace skirt that barely hit her calves. And yet, somehow she was fully prepared to present herself to the public in clothing a prostitute would question wearing. As long as the music was to his expectations, nothing else could possibly bother her.

Once her hair had been intricately pinned—for there was to be no ornate headdress or synthetic wig to mask her curls—her dresser exited her room with a soft wish of luck. And just as she expected, she heard the familiar sound of the lock turning as she felt Erik's presence fill the room.

"Christine," he said softly, and she stood in deference. "You look…" he began, but he trailed off as he searched for words.

She couldn't help but smile softly at this as she clasped her hands in front of her. "Like an innocent strumpet," she finished for him, laughing a bit to herself.

"Isn't that contradictory?" She thought she caught a hint of amusement in his voice, and her smile widened in response.

"I believe that's the point."

They stood in silence for several moments as Christine anticipated what he would say to her before this hopefully auspicious night.

"Do you feel prepared?" he finally voiced, and Christine mused on the peculiarity of small talk with Erik, particularly during this calm before the storm.

"I feel as if I could rehearse for another year and never know enough about the nuance of that music." The words were complimentary, but it was merely a statement that they both knew was undeniable, and his lack of response was enough of an agreement for her.

It wasn't long before they were sharing forbearing silence once again. She hadn't the faintest clue whether he didn't know what to say or if he was waiting for her, but after a few more beats passed, she spoke calmly.

"What have you planned for tonight?" Christine knew that she should be uneasy making such an inquiry, but her tranquility didn't falter.

"I'm sorry?" he questioned, and she heard him shift slightly.

"You have some spectacular feat prepared, and while I know you want to surprise everyone, I'd like to know what it is."

It wasn't often that she could hear him breathing, but she listened as he let out a slow breath and move towards her. For the first time that day, her pulse picked up while the deafening silence surrounded her.

"You don't have to come back here tonight."

It was her turn to stand awestruck, and she felt her throat grow dry abruptly. "I—I don't understand," she faltered, all too aware of the bewildered expression on her face.

"My spectacular feat, as you put it…" he said softly, and she jumped faintly as she felt his leather-clad hand take hers with astonishing delicacy. "Is to give you a choice. You know that I am quite conscious of your relationship with," he began, faltering as he continued, "…Raoul, but you claimed there was good in me, and—…" Once again he stopped, and her breath caught at the uncharacteristic humanity fortifying his voice.

His grip on her hand tightened for a moment before he released her and cleared his throat. "No…I will not waste your time trying to justify myself or prove myself worthwhile. That time has passed."

"Erik—" she breathed, but he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"I give you the duration of the opera to make your decision. I will honor your choice, whatever it may be," he maintained, but she stopped him.

"What choice? What do you mean when you suggest that I don't come back here?" she demanded, wanting nothing more than to feel his hand in hers once again.

She could hear the hesitation in his voice before he began to speak and it caused her own breath to shake in uncertainty. "If you so choose, I can take you away from here. Far away from Paris, where we can…" He stopped for a split second, but carried on with determination. "…remain together. For as long as you will have me."

"Are you asking me to—" she jumped in, but he didn't hear.

"If you choose otherwise, I will leave the Opera Garnier. I will leave you and your—… Monsieur de Chagny in peace, and I will never presume to bother you again." Christine could feel the pain it was causing him to say these words aloud, and she merely let out a trembling breath in response.

"You must decide by the closing of Don Juan. If you look up at Box Five, for I'm sure you know by instinct where it is in the theatre, I will know of your assent. If not… Then you will hear me no more. Do you understand?"

Christine's stomach knotted in anxiety, but she forced herself to nod.

"You must go—the curtain is rising in ten minutes. I wish you luck."

She could hear him moving away from her and she cleared her throat swiftly. "This may be the last time I hear you, then?" she blurted out, her breath catching in her throat.

"Perhaps," he said after a moment, and before she could say another word, she could feel that his presence had vanished from the room.

* * *

The opera's concept was no less than groundbreaking. Christine had, of course, never seen the set, but it had been described to her in detail from many sources. She began on stage before the curtain rose, suspended in a human-sized cage that resembled that of a canary's. It was lowered by a rope and she entered it with the help of several stage hands before it was suspended back into the air just in time for the curtain to open. People argued that it was highly unsafe for a girl without sight to be in this position, but when she questioned Erik, he simply said that she was not an invalid and would not be troubled by the height.

She would remain there for the entire first, second, and third act, providing descants above ensemble pieces and intermittent ornamentation to others' songs. The caged bird, singing to the world before her fall.

The rest of the stage was sectioned off in two subdivisions—the city and Don Juan's illustrious bedroom, shrouded by a scrim that cloaked the activity within until her scene, where it would be lit from behind in order to reveal the seduction. She was told of the vibrant colors of the bedroom—the violets and the deep rouges, that contrasted vastly with the drab grey of the city streets.

Her nerves mounted as she listened to the roar of the audience behind the curtain, and she forced herself into focusing on other things to quell her tension. She felt the cold metal beneath her bare feet, the frigid stage air on the nape of her neck that would vanish in a few moments when the lights blazed, and the sound of her own breath amongst the stale air.

When the orchestra began tuning with an intoxicating hum, her breath became shallow. She took her note off of the oboe as its A reverberated across the stage. And when the orchestra finally faded out, she took a silent breath and began, her fluttering notes suspended a capella for several seconds until a cello picked up the gentle counterpoint beneath her. And then the clarinet, and then French horn, before the entire pit was swelling with her.

It had begun.

She would not sing any actual words until after intermission, nor would she leave her metal prison. Erik once said that he hoped the audience would forget that she was even present until she sang a short and wordless descant, drawing the audience's attention back to her. There would be another bout of silence from her, another ornamentation, and another reawakening of the audience. It was a constant ebb and flow of hearing, forgetting, and remembering the lark that sat in the cage above the action.

Soon, Meg picked up an octave below Christine and began the first piece of the opera. She had landed the role of soubrette once again, and found herself portraying Don Juan's young helper, so to speak.

" _I know what my heart is like since your love died: it is like a hollow ledge holding a little pool, left there by the tide, a little tepid pool, drying inward from the edge."_

The first piece established the premise of the opera (as if any Parisian didn't know of Don Juan), and Meg was meant to describe his previous conquests, laughing at what the love struck women would say after he left to destitution.

" _But they would give the life they live for a look from the man I kiss!"_

Each line was accompanied by the character's sarcastic remarks as she scorned the stupidity of light women. Christine listened in pride as Meg sang, her voice morphing humorously with each woman she emulated. As she took in her song, Christine tried not to think of the choice she was bound to make, or consider that this could be the last time she ever heard Meg's voice. The thought made her stomach flipped as she focused on the words once more.

" _On my breast you lean, and sob most pitifully for all the lovely things that are not and have been."_

How odd… She recalled when Raoul had found Christine weeping in the dressing room, and this sole phrase could not have captured the moment more fully. Meg continued and pulled Christine out this thought before she could ponder it.

" _Pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn."_

Pity… Yes, that was a word she and Erik shared more often than others. A word they could not stand, a word that burned them to the core.

" _Was it for this I uttered prayers, and sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, and now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?"_

It struck her suddenly that she had never truly heard these lines. She had listened at rehearsal every day, but for the first time she was truly taking them in. And how astonishing that each bore some eerie resemblance to her own life. This line was no exception, for Erik had always mused on how she would loathe domestic life, forever playing the role of the trophy and being given a prescribed existence.

" _We have gone too far; we do not know how to stop: impetus is all we have. And we share it with the pushed Inert."_

The last line of the song—it was his way of describing the beginning of the end.

This opera was more than she had ever imagined: not only did his brilliance inhabit each note, but so did his argument.  _I give you the duration of the opera to make your decision_ —and the opera would be his proof!

She was so caught up in this thought that she nearly missed her suspension that would lead into the next piece. Taking a catch breath, she began to sing, unable to hide the astonishment in her voice; it seemed that once again, his genius was proven.

The opera was passing in a blur, but she was determined to hear every word and every phrase, searching for meaning anywhere she could find it. Christine became utterly enraptured in this endeavor, though, and she could have sworn that the opera had barely begun when the cage began to lower, signaling her first true entrance.

It petrified her to think that the opera would be over in only two more acts, but what a loaded two acts they were—the seduction would occur and just as in Faust, Don Juan would leave Aminta to her sorrow, disgraced and penniless. And while the opera goers would expect otherwise, Aminta would close the opera by singing of her ever-present love and devotion to Don Juan, despite his abandonment.

Christine exited the cage with leaden steps, her mind racing as she sang her first words: " _Rebellious bird, warm body foreign and bright, has no one told you? –hopeless is your flight. Though Time refeather the wing, ankle slip the ring, the once-confined thing is never again free."_  She oriented herself towards the audience, for she was meant to see a bird fluttering in their direction.

It had never been so difficult to continue singing, for her mind was stuck on her opening line. The once-confined thing is never again free… Yes, she knew that if she were to choose Raoul, all of her freedom would be forfeit. She had felt that sting of confinement when she resided at his home, and such a thing would surely be the end of her. She couldn't dwell, though, else she stood the chance of missing a cue.

" _No thing that ever flew, not the lark, not you, could die as others do."_

She stood, purposeful naivety written on her face, as she waited for Piangi to enter and lure her to his home. When she heard the line, though, she nearly choked on her breath in abject shock.

" _Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!"_

That was not Piangi's voice, and she knew that if she had vision, she would see that it was not Piangi's figure. And yet, she heard no sounds of protest from the other cast members or the audience, who either didn't notice, didn't care, or were too frightened to act.

She felt him grow nearer to her, and she almost laughed at the cleverness of it all. Don Juan's costume had been described to her as well; it was a hooded cloak that shrouded his face from view for the sum of the act, providing the perfect place for Erik to hide. It became apparent that this opera—this scheme, to be frank—was not a hastily planned trap, but a premeditated and mercurial act of theatrical proportions.

" _Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, death comes in a day or two._ "

His hand took a hold of hers, but her heart didn't catch. In fact, it all felt so comfortable and so very real, that she allowed him to blindly lead her to the opposite side of the stage without protest. She knew precisely what was still to come.

" _He that lay awake all night for sweet love's unregenerate sake,_ " she sang, and she felt her fingers tighten around his impulsively, desperate to feel him.

" _Marshal not me among the enterprises of the night. I am the beginning of the day_ ," he replied, and somehow she felt tears inexplicably prick her eyes.

" _Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, till I become accustomed to the dark_ ," she sang out as the stage lit behind them, revealing Don Juan's lair. He was no fool. He knew that these words would tear her heart apart and draw her to him all at the same time. " _I know a man that's a braver man and twenty men as kind, and what are you that you should be the one man on my mind?_ "

She imagined Raoul's face in his box, for there was no question that he knew. Or if he didn't, she marked him brainless. But even when she tried, she could not bring herself to feel guilt or remorse. In fact, part of her felt an indomitable pride as Erik's arms circled her waist no longer as a teacher, but as a lover.

They were singing together truly without shame, and it was all too easy to forget the thousands of Parisians watching them.

" _Immerse the dream. Drench the kiss. Dip the song in the stream."_ And then he took her lips as he never had before, and she felt the stage go black to signal the end of the act. They didn't release, though, and he didn't disappear as she expected him to. Quite the contrary—he held her tighter than ever and she embraced him with equal candor, not feeling the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She knew that the lights would come up any second, though, and she was meant to sing once again. It was Erik who released her finally, keeping her hands tight in hers.

"I hope to see you again," he whispered almost inaudibly underneath the deafening applause of the audience. She had no chance to reply, though, for he freed her hands and vanished from her only moments before the lights reignited.

Christine plodded through the ensemble pieces that followed, not bothering to wipe away her tears as she sang emotionlessly, unable to plunge back into the story of the opera. Rather, her mind was brimming with Erik and what her life would be if she chose him. It was difficult to see past the Opera Garnier, though, and she couldn't fathom how she would live anywhere other than Paris.

When her aria finally approached, she forced herself back into the life of Aminta, knowing that both Erik and Raoul were watching closely. She felt the rest of the cast in place behind her, as they would accompany the piece as it came to a close, creating a majestic finale to leave the spectators with.

" _Just a rainy day or two and a bitter word. Why do I remember you as a singing bird?"_  she began, her mind suddenly blank as she felt the hot lights on her, creating orbs of dull light amidst her otherwise murky, grey vision. All at once, everything seemed so clear to her and her path had illuminated before her eyes. There was only one choice she could possibly make.

" _I might be driven to sell your love for peace, or trade the memory of this night for food,"_ she sang, feeling an unanticipated smile brighten her face. " _It well may be, I do not think I would_."

Who knew what they would be together, or how they would live, or where they would go, but her customarily overactive mind didn't bother with such questions. She only knew where her eyes must travel, up and to the left, as she sang out the final words of the opera.

" _Love must be this if it be anything."_

The stage was thrown into darkness unexpectedly, and she heard the surprised gasps of her fellow cast members who knew that this wasn't meant to occur. The audience knew no better, though, and they broke out in thunderous applause that Christine barely heard as she felt his hand around her waist. The ground beneath them gave way as a trapdoor opened and they fell into even deeper darkness. There was no fear in her, no remorse, and no misgivings to be found; her choice was made and her path was chosen, uncertainty be damned.

Love must be this if it be anything.

 


	18. Of Conclusions and Cambiare

"Come in." The voice was that of Madame Giry who was sitting quietly in her office, sorting through paperwork. It was the morning after the Don Juan incident, as Paris was beginning to call it, and there was no end to who she expected at the door, for everyone seemed to have questions for her now.

When the door opened, though, it was Monsieur Firmin who shuffled in, closing this door behind him softly.

"Bonjour, monsieur de propriétaire," she greeted, setting the papers in her hands down, but not moving from her desk.

"Hello, Madame Giry," he said nervously, making his way to the chair across from her desk and sitting down hesitantly. She folded her hands and let her lips curl into a grim smile, knowing better than to try to spark conversation.

"Last night was an unexpected success," he finally said with an uncomfortable chuckle, his hands clenching the arm rests in uncertainty.

"It certainly was," she agreed automatically, cocking her head to the side marginally as she observed him.

"I don't think anyone expected such a positive reaction, what with that music and the less than wholesome storyline."

"But when have Parisians ever been wholesome, Monsieur Firmin?" Giry joked lightly, eyeing him as he forced a laugh out of his mouth. When he didn't respond for several moments, she placed her hands in her lap, leaning back in her chair. "Did you come to discuss something?" she pressed.

He seemed reluctant, but he finally pried the words of his mouth. "Our Prima Donna… I don't believe I've seen her today. Is she well?" It was so very sad to hear him speak, for he knew the answer to that question. He knew that she could not be found even if all of France were to search.

"She is no longer here," she said simply, her tone guarded.

"And where is she? We still have the run of the opera ahead of us," he reminded her, inching forward minutely.

"Unfortunately, we will no longer be able to perform Don Juan Triumphant. Unless you find a new Prima Donna, that is," Madame Giry shrugged.

"If she's gone off with Raoul, we can simply contact his brother and—" Firmin began, but Madame shook her head slowly, holding up a hand.

"She is not with Raoul," she replied, lowering her hand to her lap.

"Then who could she—…" he began, but realization sprung upon his face. "Le fantôme! Surely she hasn't been kidnapped? The poor girl has been through so much!" he exclaimed, a hand flying to his chest in shock.

"Oh no, Monsieur. She has gone quite willingly, I'm sure. He would never force her to do such a thing." She felt a ghost of a smile play on her lips as she thought of her old friend—her old friend whom she had betrayed, and who never indicted her for it.

"You say that as if you are companions," he replied with the barest hint of malice.

"One could say that," she murmured, her eyes drifting down to her desk. "Incidentally, he left a note for you and Monsieur Moncharmin," she said almost slyly, sifting through a few papers and producing a small, unmarked envelope.

She watched him reach out with a shaky hand and take the envelope, all but ripping it open before her eyes. "Plaudite, amici, commedia finita est," he fumbled, his eyes narrowing on the words in confusion.

Madame Giry's smile widened as she let out a slow breath. "Friends, applaud, the Comedy is over," she repeated as she quelled the tears that pricked her eyes.

* * *

Anxiety plagued Christine for several weeks after Don Juan Triumphant. Even as they travelled away to Switzerland, she feared that someone would recognize them, or that there would be questions of why they were travelling together. And most of all, she worried about Raoul.

That was, until she heard news of the aftermath of the opera. While Raoul scrambled endlessly to recover, or even find, Christine, his power was quickly waning. After the opening of Erik's opera, the managers were inundated with earls, counts, margraves, and infanta alike who were itching to become a part of the Opera Garnier. The lowly viscount and his brother, who couldn't care less about the politics of the opera, were pushed out of the position as patrons before they knew what had occurred. For as the management insisted, they were obliged to tend to those of higher rank before a mere viscount.

And so, as Raoul's leverage in Paris dwindled, so did his search. It seemed that Paris had forgotten about him and his fiancée all too quickly, and had moved on to more vicious gossip.

Her life with Erik was all too easy to become accustomed to. She worried that it would be difficult to find a home, particularly since she brought no money of her own. That fear was alleviated quickly, though, for it seemed that Erik's wealth and power reached much farther than she had ever anticipated.

Their days were spent simply enough. They would dine together and he would continue to teach her the music she so longed to learn. He would play a different instrument for her every day, and teach her small exercises on the piano and violin.

And then one day, several weeks after the night of the opera, Erik raised a subject she thought he would never broach. It was the surgery that he had so deftly skirted around when they lived in Paris.

He had searched for doctors and researched the procedure. He had learned of the general anesthesia recently introduced to the surgery, though he reminded her that pain would not be eliminated completely, for there was still the recovery to consider. He described the procedure in detail, and pointed out where every hazard existed. It was decided that day that she would receive the surgery, though, despite any risks that were before her.

It all passed so quickly that it was difficult for Christine to recall much of anything that happened the day of the surgery. In fact, when the anesthesia had been administered and her nerves dulled, she found it difficult to discern between the waking and sleeping world, and was caught in a hazy limbo for some time.

"Christine?" The voice was foggy, but her senses sharpened as she listened for him. She felt a familiar blanket beneath her, and she knew she had been taken back to her home; perhaps she had fallen asleep after all. Or had the surgery even occurred? "Christine, you can open your eyes."

Her breath shook and she swallowed hard as she let her eyelids slowly rise.

Before her, as if it had always been there, she saw light.

 


End file.
